Vultures
by Aardy
Summary: One of them can't get an erection; the other is losing his son. Who says Turks don't have problems? If only they weren't so preoccupied; they would have realised by now that she is actually more of a vulture than they are. - Pre-game. Reno/Tifa/Rude -
1. Midnight

**1  
**

**_Wednesday, September 29th, 11:59 pm – Tifa's Seventh Heaven, Sector Seven_**

She hated it. Yes, that she could be sure of.

Waving off another leaving customer, Tifa began to dream, lingering around this sudden spike of negativity as she strangled the neck of a whiskey bottle. Trying not to bury her head too far into the Freudian textbooks, she would often wonder about the origins of this severe dislike, finding a scapegoat in an inaminate object lying on her windowsil, a present from her friend, Jessie. It wasn't a living, breathing creature that had harmed or offended her in any way. It didn't or, for the sake of her sanity,_ shouldn't_ interrupt her or ignore her when she felt like talking. And it definitely would never call out the name of an ex-girlfriend mid-coitus. It did, however, remind her of everything she disliked about herself, and every glance at it resulted in the same set of turbulent feelings: memories of foul smelling market stalls, the air usually rife with the pungent amalgam of body odour and black smoke; street bums dishing out black looks that were tantamount to a middle finger salute; the pushing, and shoving, and groping.

_Why can't I stop staring at it?_

_It_ was a lopsided set of brass scales on the window ledge, partially hidden by a broken jukebox. She'd rather it be completely hidden, but hadn't gotten round to finding a better, or worse, spot for it.

With a glance at the clock she felt under the bar for her tablecloth. Eyelids heavy, she was ready for bed but wouldn't be closing for another few hours. She'd yawn if the air wasn't completely saturated with dust and booze and bad breath.

"Excuse me, miss!"

She shook her head, snapping out of her reverie, and looked over at the gruff man tapping his fist against the counter.

"Yes, sir, what can I get you?"

"I've been asking you to get me a glass of rum for the past five minutes but you've been daydreaming on the job."

"Oh. I'm really sorry, sir. This one's on the house."

The man shook his head and wandered back to his empty table with his drink. She looked at him again and realised he had come alone. He sat, arms folded, glaring at every young couple that entered beside him and shaking his head at their unabashed actions. But that was life in the slums. Many people did not come to bars to socialise. They came just to drink, to get away from their own convoluted problems, and to lose themselves in indulgence.

She took a step back and sat upon her uncomfortable stool that vied to make life as hard as possible for her spine. Being barked at by a customer was not a regular occurrence, leaving her overwhelmed by the underwhelming situation. It wasn't the verbal abuse per se. Rather, the fact that she was no longer liked by one-hundred percent of the people in the bar.

_They say that nice guys finish last. In that case, where the hell do nice girls finish?_

The bell rang above the door as it opened once more during the jukebox's lull between records. It was enough to catch her attention for more than the usual nanosecond. It was enough to steal the limelight from the terrible set of scales.

It was enough to change Tifa's life forever - though understanding why would have been jumping the gun ever so slightly.

It started with a man.

_Red hair; obviously conditioned and well maintained_: **vain_._**

_Designer suit, designer shades, designer shoes_: **wealthy and vain.**

_A smile more lopsided than the horrible scales_: **cocky, wealthy and vain.**

_The first thing he looked at when he sat down at the bar? My breasts_: **game over.**

He winked at Tifa.

"Hi there, what can I get you?" she asked, as warmly as possible.

His gaze did not leave hers as he removed a cigarette from a silver-plated case, placing it firmly between his lips as though it had always belonged there. He took his time to taste the processed leaves and Wutaian slave labour dissolving through the paper, rolling the stick of tobacco from one corner of his mouth to the other with a flick of the tongue.

He patted the remaining pockets stitched to his expensive garments rather hastily for any object to set the stick of tobacco alight, conceding very quickly. Standing up, he leaned over the counter, his cologne dancing around her nostrils, reaching on the underside of the bar, feeling his way around melting ice, chopped lemons, cutlery and empty glasses before settling on a small matchbox soaked in diet coke.

He concluded the act with an exaggerated moan of pleasure as nicotine fused with his bloodstream. His closing words were, "I'm not here to drink."

Catching a distorted reflection from an empty glass, she discovered the smile that would do little more than encourage the strange patron's attempts at what could only be described as a courtship ritual. On any other day she would have simply walked away, tended to another customer or pretended to refill a barrel. Playing hard to get like this would keep him at an arm's length so that he was far enough to keep his _thing_ in his pants but close enough to keep buying alcohol from her. On any _other _day, she would have laughed in his face and told him not to cancel his _Penthouse_ subscription.

There had to be a little room for forgiveness when she was behind the bar. After all, she couldn't blame the men for responding to her tight T-shirts and flirtatious behaviour the way they did. But when she was off work, with her family and her friends, she was no longer the sexy barmaid dressing down to aid her business. She was a human being that deserved to be treated with respect.

So, having thought about all of that, she began to wonder why she was smiling instead of walking away. She began to wonder why she was staring at the edge of a pectoral muscle under his dishevelled shirt, four buttons carelessly ignored.

She wondered who he was.

"Then what are you doing here?" she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"I came here to see you," he replied, calmly taking another drag of his cigarette, arrogantly blowing out ringlets of smoke.

"You came here to see me?"

"You sound so surprised."

"Well, have we even met before?"

"I saw you here a few days ago from outside. You were arranging a few wine bottles on the shelf by the window and I couldn't help but stop and stare at you," he said, playing the embarrassed stranger she would never know."You're really beautiful, do you know that? Shit, what am I saying? Of course you know that."

Tifa nodded at the other barmaid by the sink in the back.

"Sheila, can you just take over the bar for five minutes?" she called.

He flicked a few dying cigarette embers into the bar ashtray and smiled smugly to himself. She was intrigued. He knew it. It didn't take a genius to figure it out.

It had taken a while to perfect, allowing him to build up an evolutionary immunity to mace, proving Darwin's genius. Then again, charm never was acquired easily, and his was in no way subtle. It tended to sucker-punch the recipient, leaving them out of breath and unguarded.

In all honesty, she did not see his brash confidence coming, even though she had almost been conditioned by the wolf whistles and one-liners of many of her regulars. However, many of her regulars were men that clearly breached the age of those that still owned their own teeth.

Was this the answer she had been searching for? Was it karma, or any other indescribable set of principles that had somehow sent this man to her bar? With a look over his shoulder, her eyes found the scales on the window ledge. They suddenly seemed to find equilibrium – a perfect balance. The tedium and boredom had long since disappeared from her mind's eye… was it a sign?

She removed the nearest bottle of white wine from the shelf behind her and poured herself a glass.

"Seeing as though you're not drinking, I hope you don't mind if I take a drop."

"Go ahead, it's on me."

"I know," she replied.

He chuckled quietly as she sipped the iridescent liquid from the glass, staring into his eyes dreamily before breaking off into her normal state of conformity by asking him the obvious question.

"So, what's your name?"

"You don't want to know my name."

"Why ever not?" she asked in a sardonically soft pitched tone.

"Because telling you my name would kill the romance instantaneously."

"_Romance?_"

"Yeah, I mean, don't you think it's far sexier for two strangers to know each other incredibly intimately without knowing one another's names? Don't you think it's far more dangerous? Passionate? _Wild_?"

She placed her glass on the bar and leaned in closer to the mysterious stranger before her, ignoring her reflection in his eyes.

"What makes you think I want romance with you? Or romance at all for that matter?"

With a slow and steady movement he touched her arm and caressed her skin. It was a daring move but she refused to pace back. Enthralled by his allure that had placed her in a stranglehold, disabling her ability to think normally, she allowed herself to become encompassed by the moment.

He slid his finger down her arm, eventually holding her hands in his. They were soft and smooth; each finger slim and slender; an experienced set of hands that could do anything.

"It's oozing from every pore of your skin – this delicate skin. And your eyes; there is so much emotion swimming in them, probably even more than in your mind or your heart. I can read every contour of your body like a poem." He removed his hands and lifted his arms to gesture at the people in the dark bar. "Just look at this place! You don't fit in this dump, it just doesn't make sense."

He seemed to enjoy holding her hands, reaching out to caress them once more.

"You're like a rose forced to grow in this compost heap of a bar. You're yearning to get out of this dreary place because you know you deserve better. You need a little excitement in your life, hell, everybody does."

That was the moment she flinched, ever so slightly. He had summed her up perfectly with one glance of her now imminent body language. With a moment's thought, she took another sip and forced her eyes to stop gazing through his for a fraction of a second. It was not that she did not like him, but he did seem a little more direct than she was accustomed to and, in all honesty, it was awfully intimidating.

The man docked out his cigarette and tapped his fingers on the bar to regain Tifa's attention.

"You know what, I'm feeling kinda' thirsty. Maybe I will have a drink."

"Oh, uh… what would you…?"

"Scotch. On the rocks."

She stood upright, removed a large glass bottle from the top shelf and poured some scotch into a tumbler. With a mallet, she crushed a few slabs of ice into jagged rocks and dropped them into a glass. She slid the drink over and watched him slowly take a sip.

"Why have I never seen you here before?" she asked, placing her chin upon her propped fist, trying to read him the same way he had done.

He had made it look easy.

"Well, I don't really live around here, Tifa."

She stood upright, an expression of curiosity forming on her face rapidly like a reflex action.

"How do you know my name?"

"This is your bar isn't it? _Tifa's _Seventh Heaven? It'd be a pretty misleading title if not."

She sighed and coiled her hair through her fingers in mild embarrassment.

"Yeah, okay, my bad, but now shouldn't you tell me your name? It's only fair. I'm sure it won't _kill the romance_."

"Fine, putting all romanticism aside, my name's Reno."

"That's an unusual name," she replied, rinsing out her wine glass. "Then again you are an unusual person."

He drained his drink and shook his head as though a foreign word had struck his ears.

"Unusual? In what way am I unusual?"

"I don't know; people like you aren't very common in these parts of the slums."

"Yeah, well I told you, I'm not from around here."

"So where are you from then?"

He shrugged; not as though he didn't know the answer. It was more of an expression to inform her that the answer didn't really exist.

"I don't really have a home. I don't like being anchored down to live in one building for the rest of my life, or even one city. I like to travel a lot; you can't name a place I haven't visited."

The din of the bar seemed to have settled down as more of the customers began to lose interest in drowning their sorrows, choosing to return again tomorrow. They all mumbled their incoherent goodbyes to Tifa and Sheila as they left.

She placed her chequered cloth under the counter and moved in front of the bar to sit besides Reno. After propping herself upon one of the bar stools, she gazed intently at him once again.

"Socialising on the job are you?" he remarked.

"No, my shift's over. I should be closing this place up in an hour but I'm sure the patrons won't mind if I call time a little earlier."

"You'd be doing them a favour, alcohol screws people up. I'm glad I never touch the stuff," he uttered, waiting for her cute giggle to erupt once more. "Why don't you do it then? Close up this place so that we can take a walk."

"A walk where?"

"We don't need a destination to govern a walk now, do we? People never walk aimlessly anymore or let their creativity run riot," he mused aloud, his fingers tapping the counter as though they belonged to a concert pianist. "Hey, do you know what I'd love to do?"

She ruffled her hair and yawned slightly. "No, what would you love to do, Reno?"

"I'd love to just get lost. I'd love to just walk out into the night and take a gut instinct on which turn to make and which street to venture into until I get completely and utterly lost. Just to break away from my own comfort zone and to feel thoroughly excited again-

"And I'd like to walk with you, Tifa. What do you say? Are you going to walk out past midnight in this dangerous city with a complete stranger? Or are you still being controlled by your doubt and insecurity?"

Tifa smiled broadly and looked away to laugh before she returned her gaze and noticed that his expression had hardly changed.

"Are you serious?" she said, the best response she could muster.

Reno took hold of her soft hands once more and stroked them gently with his thumbs.

"I'm more serious then I have ever been in my life."

"What would you do?" she asked, hoping her debating skills could ease her away from this awkward situation. "If you were me and a complete stranger just asked you to get lost with him past midnight around the most dangerous city in the world? Hmm? It's a lot harder to say yes when you flip around and view things from my perspective."

Reno bit his lower lip and rested his head against the bar, still holding Tifa's hand and keeping it close to his cheek.

"You don't have to worry about the dangers of the street... I'll protect you."

"It's not _me_ I'm worried about," Tifa replied, removing her hand from his, soon waltzing back behind the bar to appear occupied.

Reno dusted himself off, a painfully laborious motion, and played with the long stands of Tifa's hair.

"Well, I'll be leaving now. And I can tell you that you'll never see me again. I won't come to this bar, I won't come to this street, I won't come to this Sector or even this damn city ever again. I'll be another stranger to inflict minimal impact upon your life." He turned to face the door and pushed it open; knowing fully well that he had caught Tifa's undivided attention. As he turned around he noticed her eyes screaming for him to stay and her body language betraying her. "… Unless you come on this walk with me. We'll walk until the sun rises then we'll find a way home again. Who knows – maybe we could make arrangements to take another midnight walk."

She exhaled loudly, leaning against the bar. His suave confidence had definitely won her over and the danger of his proposal only weakened her knees. She was sure this man had everything she needed, he could give her the attention she craved for or the satisfaction she deserved – even if it was for only one night.

She took a look at the scales one last time before she said, "The sun doesn't rise in the slums..."

The only response he could give was a wave as he inched out of the door.

She suddenly found herself clapping loudly to create a shrill noise that resonated around the bar.

"Time, gentlemen, please!" she shouted, ringing the bell dangling from the crossbeam, ignoring the groans of her disappointed regulars.

**_Thursday, September 30th, 00:30 am – Velvet Bank Road, Sector Six_**

He would never understand the irony of the statement, allowing him to feel relatively comfortable when saying, "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing," she replied uneasily.

He followed her gaze and nodded in response to an inaudible exclamation.

"Ah, _that_ thing. I don't really come to the slums too much but I do know that that plate is one hell of an eyesore."

"Well, it's not just an eyesore for me anymore. I've had to live with that thing looming above me for quite a long time now and it never ceases to amaze me. It's more than just an ugly hunk of concrete and metal, y'know? It's more than just a shield to the beautiful sky. It's... it's what it signifies that disgusts me the most."

The oppressive nature of the plate amplified the wails of nearby police sirens, marking the end of another citizen's ephemeral life, inducing word after word to flow off her tongue.

"It's an insignia," she continued, "that demonstrates the callousness of human beings. Shinra created it to keep his stranglehold on the inhabitants down below… to mortally wound our souls and to shackle us to the shadows we live in."

She rubbed her forehead and smiled awkwardly. _What am I saying? _

"I'm sorry. I'm boring you, aren't I?"

"Of course not."

His reply was calm and reassuring. He could see she was not brilliant at choosing the right words to say on what could only be described as their first pseudo-date.

Reno often believed that if there was no chance of having sex at the end of the night then the word _date_ became obsolete. He had been studying her closely for the past half an hour - enough time to draw up a rough schematic of her mind. She kept her arms folded, almost covering her breasts from view. It seemed to be a passive way of informing him that she was not the wildcat barmaid he hoped she would be.

It made sense in its lacklustre way.

Other noticeable attributes to her physical appearance seemed to add to the growing list of unavailability: the lack of make-up, the scrunchie tying her rather beautiful hair out of view, the old hand-me-downs she wore.

The schematic had evolved into a laundry list of crap.

It didn't matter anymore. He was happy to move on, unhappily safe in the knowledge that the proposition was firmly off the table after her poetical diatribe about social inequality. That didn't go to say he was a pig though. He had female friends and he enjoyed the company of anyone that could hold a conversation without dipping into the awkward abyss of silence.

"I guess I've never thought about the people that live down here underneath that plate," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But maybe I can give you a little tip to keep your spirits up."

She took a deep breath as they crossed over unused asphalt, entering a side street, both not choosing where to go, one simply following the other.

"I'm all ears," she said.

"OK. All you have to do is think of a quote. But not just any quote. It has to have come from someone very close to you so that it becomes a personal memory rather than an ordinary set of words. Think of your favourite person in the world and then think of the most significant thing they ever said to you. Think of any inspirational words they may have imparted that changed your outlook on the future."

She moved closer to his body, the heat escaping from which provided more than just warmth.

"I don't know, I can't think of anything."

"Of course you can, you're just being lazy."

She giggled and stared into space, finding it difficult to remember the last time anyone had said something, period, let alone something of general importance. She needed an excuse to prevent her appearing foolish or dull, but that proved to be even tougher.

It would have been a lot easier if Marlene's little voice didn't flood her memory so often.

It had only been two days since the little girl had read Tifa's palm in an act of boredom, claiming that her mystical powers were strengthening each day. She had decided to amuse her and allowed her to inspect her left palm like a bank teller inspecting a fraudulent thousand Gil bill, expecting the usual fortune a six year old girl's imagination could produce––_You will find your one true love. You will live happily ever after. You will buy Marlene lots of cookies._

The actual fortune had been rather disturbing indeed.

_You will be blinded by love... It will lead you to a path of inner destruction...You will find the solution in the barrel of a gun... Your heart will desire revenge..._

She had witnessed a small glint of light in the young girl's eyes and drew her palm back to a safe distance, unaware of the correct phrase to make sense of the situation. She had no desire to question Marlene's fortune. She had no desire to fathom the remarkable series of events that had transpired.

She had simply wanted to vomit.

With another glance up at the plate she conceded once more.

"Alright, let me hear what your quote is first."

Reno stopped and looked her intently in the eyes. He held her hands and waited for her to focus back.

"OK, look, this may sound a little stupid, but one of my closest friends told me something a long time ago that really made me think... You ready for this?"

She nodded, expecting to be thoroughly entertained.

"Here's what happened. My friend once told me that it's OK to act crazily. It's OK to do things that are dangerous or to do things that don't seem right to other people. And the craziest idea is often the most revolutionary."

"I see," she responded, mentally digesting his rather strange comment. "So, when exactly has a _crazy _idea been revolutionary?"

"Alright, think about the first man that ever milked a cow."

They both continued to walk under the ambient glow of the street lights with only their echoing voices as reassurance that human life still existed. She giggled to herself as she waited for his logic to kick in.

He continued, flawlessly delivering his speech.

"What must have been going through the mind of the man that first milked a cow? Well I'll tell ya, he must have been one crazy son of a bitch that liked feeling up farmyard animals and ingesting their bodily fluids!" He paused as Tifa burst out laughing. "Think about it. If you saw a man drinking cow's milk for the first time you'd think that was pretty crazy. But his _crazy_ idea has now become the norm in today's society. I mean, when you open up a carton of milk, do you ever stop to think that it came from a cow's tits? No, because his crazy idea was a revolutionary idea."

"So are you saying that it's OK to be a crazy guy that likes to feel up farmyard animals to drink their bodily fluids?"

"Absolutely!" he responded, trying not to laugh.

"Alright, you've made your point," she replied, patting his chest and huddling under his jacket as a slight gust of wind bathed her body. "Oh! I think I know what my quote would have to be.

"A long time ago my father once said something very important to me. He said that _in a world filled with vultures, sometimes it's better not to play dead_-

"I never really understood what that meant back when I was a kid, but now that I've witnessed the harshness of this world we live in, I know that the only person I can look out for is myself."

Reno placed his arm over her shoulder, his warm breath instantly condensing in the cold air as he spoke.

"Your father sounds like an intelligent man. His words make a lot of sense. And after recollecting on those words you now remember that the only one to look out for is yourself.

"So...? What are you waiting for? If you're the only one that can make things better then go for it! Don't waste your time in that bar of yours day in day out. If you want to rise above everyone else you have to work for it… _yourself_."

"I guess… you know what… I think I do feel a little better," she whispered, enjoying the sound of her high heels clicking against the pavement. "Do you think we're lost yet?"

He laughed, his slender frame shuddering against hers.

"We've been walking for twenty minutes."

"Yeah, well I've never seen this place before. Mind you, I never walk around the rougher neighbourhoods."

That was a lie, but she was getting the feeling that this may not have been the greatest of decisions. He seemed fine enough, but his capricious character, as alluring as it was, gave food for her doubt.

"I'm sure you know where you are," she continued. "Maybe not because of your knowledge but because you're a man that doesn't like to prove he's ever lost."

"Actually, I have a confession to make… I can't get lost in this city. I mean, like I told you, you can't name a place I haven't visited. You should really have paid more attention back in that bar, Tifa," he teased. "I guess I just wanted to take a walk with you."

"You shouldn't have told me that."

"Why not?"

"Because I get the sneaking suspicion it just killed the romance."

"So there was _some _romance to start with? That's good enough for me, let's go back to your place," he said, scooping her up and carrying her in his arms.

She giggled and patted his shoulder.

"Hey, put me down. I guess I should get back home––on my own. It's getting late and I have to get up early in the morning."

Reno placed her back on the ground and threw his hands in his shallow pockets.

"Do you want me to walk you home?"

"Oh I see. This is just a cunning way to find out my address without actually asking me for it. You take me out here to the middle of nowhere so that I'm forced to walk back with you. I must say, you are one clever man."

"Hey, you should be falling head over heels now that you've found a sexy _and _intelligent man. I'm a difficult breed of masculinity to obtain in this derelict city," he said, deliberately pulling poses that flexed his muscles. "So Tifa," he whispered, pulling her within earshot after she had finished laughing. "Ask me if I'm feeling lucky."

"Alright. _Are you feeling lucky_?"

"It depends on how you react to this."

He leaned in to kiss her, only finding her cheek as she jerked away, his lips merely grazing the flesh of her face. The butterflies ran havoc in her stomach as she moved back and shook her head, keeping him firmly at bay.

Reno sighed, "I guess I'm not feeling lucky."

"I guess not," she replied with a smile, perambulating the shadows with a suggestive sway of her hips.

Realising he had found and exposed a tiny portion of repressed flirtatiousness, he smiled and enjoyed the view.

"I'll get that kiss sooner or later. In fact, you'll be the one kissing me."

His words grabbed her body and turned it on axis, leaving a growing smile on display.

"Well?" she asked, finding nothing clever to say in response. "Do you want to walk me home or not?"

* * *

**A/N**

I should mention that setting the story pre-game has not given me the artistic licence to change the personalities of the characters. I do want to stress, however, that the story will try to place histories behind Rude's, Tifa's and Reno's idiosyncrasies and develop motives for some of their actions within the game. I'm not going to give too much away, but I will warn you that Rude does speak in this story. As the video-game plot dictates, he'll shut up by the end. I promise.

aardy.


	2. Reincarnation

**2**

**_Friday, October 1st, 5:46 pm – Tifa's Seventh Heaven, Sector Seven_**

After docking out his cigarette with three stabs at the heart of his ashtray, Biggs let out a plume of ashen haze and rested finger and thumb over his remaining knight's ridged head. Documenting the possibility of walking into a trap, he exhaled the residual smoke over the board, watching it drift between the antique porcelain pieces like low fog separating soldiers on the battlefield, and retracted, resting his chin against the table until the black and yellow cheques became a phantasmagoric platform under misshapen creatures. Taking a look at the board from another angle, he tapped the heads of captured pieces and stroked his chin, lost in deep thought.

After what could only be described as a minute eternity of pondering, he eventually nodded in approval and pushed a pawn forward one square.

"Oh, my God. I wasted four hours of my life to watch you push your goddamned pawn one measly square?" Jessie groaned, burying her face in her palms.

"This is chess, Jess. It isn't just some stupid board game. It's an art form and it deserves a little respect."

"And you pay your respect by taking half a century to move a pawn up one square?" she asked, taking his queen with a bishop that finagled its way through the chink in the wall of pawns left by Biggs' careless move.

"Damn," he mouthed. "And yes. The pawns are just as valuable as any other piece. They aren't just kamikaze soldiers, pushed into the centre of the board to lure unsuspecting rooks and queens out of safety and into your lap, y'know."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Face it, Biggs. You just can't handle losing to a girl."

Barret growled from across the room, sandwiched between a tiny couch supporting his ample frame and a family pack of frozen peas resting atop his forehead. "Will you two jus' shaddap and le'me get some rest?"

He grimaced as he rolled to his side and placed the pack of peas over his ear to drown out the verbigeration of his subordinates, allowing it to pilfer heat from the blood passing through it. While one sensory organ had blocked the passage of irritating information to his brain, his eyes had now taken over, fixated on the mahogany chest that had been left to gather dust in the corner of the basement for the past three weeks. Its primary function had once been to hold the television in the frequency sweet spot where they could at least receive the news channel. Soon after, it became much more than any of them could or would ever want to anticipate.

Three weeks ago, he had received his invitation from anonymous leads, unofficially appointing himself as the Midgarian ambassador for the collective anti-fascist movements of the slums. He had travelled to the railway bridges on the outskirts of a lawless town, taking nothing more than the empty mahogany chest with him. His team did not question him at the time, nor did they question him when he returned and dropped the chest back in its original spot, ignoring the amplified thud and rattling of its possible contents. They ignored the fact that it was now padlocked, ignored the conspicuous oil-soaked rag that covered it and even ignored the fact that its contents were distorting the television signal it once received perfectly. As far as they were concerned, he could have hidden Schrodinger's cat in there. But that wasn't their job. They were not supposed to question his unusual methods or his clandestine operations. Their unity depended on trust; trust in Barret to lie to them for their own good, trust in their leader to make tough decisions, trust in themselves to defend their principles and debate his ideas when they were eventually verbalised.

They all knew his next plan was a hefty one: they could see the bags developing under his eyes after several contiguous sleepless nights and the colour draining from his cheeks as a result of his waning appetite, sensing his patience drowning slowly in a tar pit of despair. Some virulent force had stricken his body, and possible even his mind, with consumption. And unbelievably, the force was not a grotesque, black swarm of agony, but was a smile framed by rosy cheeks and glowing warmth; a smile of newfound happiness in the city of sin.

The smile belonged to Tifa.

"Hey, guys," she spoke, displaying said smile unreservedly as she hopped off the arcade machine and dumped three paper bags on the workshop counter. "Sorry I'm so late with the groceries. I was talking to Reno upstairs. We're going on our first official date tonight."

"I thought you had a moral rule never to date your patrons," Biggs chimed, carefully pushing another pawn up the board.

"OK, firstly, he's not a patron: he's a new customer," she riposted, practically throwing the newly bought food into the fridge. "And secondly, have you _seen_ him? Talk about sexy."

"You're preaching to the converted, sister," Jessie hollered, capturing Biggs' bishop and declaring check. "It's about time you found yourself a hot piece of ass."

Closing the refrigerator door with a vacant glance at the ceiling, Tifa smiled and shook her head. "I dunno. Something tells me this could be more than... well, _y'know_."

"After one night?" Biggs snorted. "Let me tell you something, Teef. We _all_ use the Prince Charming routine to make chicks get that rush of chemicals, forcing you to mistake lust for love. It seems counterintuitive, I know: commitment is the last thing we want, after all. But at the end of the day, if it accelerates your desire to drop trou', it's worth it."

"_Or_," Jessie quickly interjected, slapping her opponent upside the head, "you could use this date as an opportunity to prove that all men aren't really as disgusting as Biggs."

Barret pressed the pack of peas harder against his ears to muffle the jarring noises around him. In his current photophobic state, with nothing more to look at than the less than halcyon image of destruction sealed in a mahogany chest and Tifa's sweet face – the representation of a conscience elevated to vertiginous heights – it may have been better for him to clamp his eyelids shut as well. But, like the mirror on the wall, his conscience reflected Tifa's. His mind would not let him hide from the inevitability of hurting his closest friends. His family. But he was their leader. If he was not fit for the challenge then he was not fit to command their respect. Three weeks was long enough to put off anything.

Resisting the urge to sleep, he lifted the pack of peas off his forehead and glanced at Tifa.

"How you doin', kid?" he asked quietly, inducing silence from the rest of his team.

"Uh... I'm OK. How about you? You don't look so good."

"Just a little overtired. It's hard to sleep with these fools makin' so much noise."

"Well, nobody asked you to sleep here," Biggs uttered under his breath.

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that," he croaked, sitting up laboriously. "Alright, look. I've got somethin' to tell everyone."

"We're listening," Jessie responded, sliding a rook down the board to claim checkmate.

"It's about the mahogany chest," he continued, rattling the walls with a deep, drowsy chuckle as every pair of eyes in the room immediately locked on to his. "I thought that would grab your attention."

"You're finally gonna tell us what's in that thing?" Wedge asked, poking his head above the broadsheet he had been hiding behind in the far corner.

"Yeah, Wedge. I'm finally comin' clean. You've all been waitin' patiently for me to drop the bomb on this one for three weeks, and for that I thank you. You see, the reason it's taken me so long to tell you guys about this is because I'm not quite sure how you'll react to it. Or maybe it's 'cause I know exactly how you're goin' to react to it and that's what scares me."

Rolling his eyes around their sockets uncomfortably, Biggs glanced at the chest and shuddered. "You're scared of our _reaction_? I gotta admit, you're making me a little nervous, Big Man. What the hell is in there?"

"Here's the key," he replied, removing the dull piece of silver from his pocket and throwing it over to Biggs. "See for yourself."

Reclining further, Barret continued, "I've been meetin' up with members of a splinter faction of the Wutaian army for a couple o' months now. The majority of 'em live in their own secret community up in the fiery hills of Da-chao where they practice the ancient traditions of their culture and keep an eye on the tourist trap that was formerly their home. They can't do much about the current social or economic climate: the money brought in from tourism brings food to the tables and keeps their people alive. But what they don't condone is their people's growin' _dependence _on mako energy. They know mako won't last forever. Hell, the Shinra company_ themselves_ have predicted supplies to last nothin' more than a mere fifty years. So, when Shinra gives up their search for the ketchup at the very bottom of the bottle, the Wutaian splinter faction will be able to return from the foothills with the knowledge of their ancient culture, returnin' prosperity to their town by teaching people how to fish and hunt and survive without electricity.

"The problem thus lies in Shinra's latest statement. D'you guys catch it? It was on the news a few months ago."

"Yeah," Biggs responded, still staring at the key, unable to move a muscle. "Shinra said they weren't ready to give up the fight. They said they were developing new reactors that could dig out the residual pools of mako from the earth's core."

"Exactly," he responded, the sobering truth clearing the somnolence from his head. "Y'know, I've been reading a lot of science books recently and I discovered that the earth could probably survive with eighty percent of its mako removed. Any more than that though would cause the earth's natural balance to shift in ways we can't imagine. We depend upon the mako core to generate electric and magnetic fields that deflect solar radiation and to keep us from all fryin' like fish sticks. It boils in the earth's centre and rises to the crust, spewin' outta volcanoes or vaporizin' through rocks, releasin' gasses that make up half our atmosphere.

"Now, the boys up in Wutai didn't exactly read up on their science books like I did. Their concern goes far deeper than anythin' I could ever think of."

"And that would be?" Jessie asked, rocking gently on her chair.

"The lifestream. Y'see, the only reason the earth can survive with eighty percent of its core missing is 'cause the lifestream replenishes it, heals it, protects it. But with all the environmental changes that'll take place when the last scraps o' mako are drained away, this world will become a much harsher place to live in. The cycle of life and death will greatly favour death and the lifestream will weaken. When that happens... well, there'll be no hope for any of us."

"Open the chest, Biggs," Jessie whispered, her mouth as dry as bone. She could feel her heart pounding through her chest like a jackhammer, fearing the worst from the signals her leader unintentionally radiated. His movements, his words, his behaviour: they all pointed to desperation fuelled by extreme paranoia. It didn't even matter if his worries were based on reality. When his plans were introduced in such a verbose and calm manner, there was always cause for concern.

Feeling the gaze of the entire group on his back, Biggs stepped up and slowly made his way over to the chest. He lifted the television and placed it on the ground before unlatching the chest as though it contained unimaginable treasures.

Or, in this case, unimaginable terrors.

Hit by blinking green lights upon opening the box, he fell back in shock.

"What? What is it?" Tifa gasped, rushing forward to help Biggs to his feet.

"Explosives," Barret spoke, his voice hidden under an exaggerated sigh.

Relenting to believe him, Tifa pried open the case herself and could do nothing more than utter unintelligible syllables as the others gathered around her to join in.

"Oh, my God. What do you plan on doing with these... these _things_?"

"I plan on savin' the planet from total annihilation!" he replied with a developing sense of conviction. "All we have to do is put each of these devices in the mako reactor cores, detonate 'em, and watch Shinra's empire crumble through his clubbed fingers before he even knows what's hit him. We'll restore balance to the fragile lifestream and finally punish that devil in the sky for his sins. C'mon, Tifa. How can you not see this is a positive step?"

"Where did you get this stuff?" Biggs spoke, peering through the chest to gawk at the explosives once more.

"Hold on a minute, Biggs," Tifa interjected, holding her palm aloft to signify authority, her eyes still glued to Barret's. "Are you asking me how I can't see the murder of the reactor's workers and the innocent civilians that are unlucky enough to get caught in the blast zone as a _positive_ step?"

"I got 'em from a few members of the splinter faction that'd evaded execution from..."

"Answer me, Barret!" Tifa demanded, with glassy eyes wide and unblinking.

"Of course there're gonna be innocent lives lost, Tifa!" he boomed, taking to his feet to further project his point. "There will always be casualties of war in our fight to save the planet. But we can't dwell on their lives when the fate of the entire human race is at stake here. You have to look at the bigger picture."

"And in your opinion, the bigger picture is only visible by fighting evil with evil?"

"No. This is jus' fightin' fire with fire."

Barely able to hold his gaze for another minute, she turned to the chest, descrying a poisonous green haze seeping through the hinges, polluting the air and the mind of a man she once respected. Dense like winter fog, it crept along her ankles and glued her in position, seeping upwards to constrict her chest and squeeze the air from her lungs. Wriggling over to the workshop counter, she grabbed an empty grocery bag and breathed into it, trying to control her sudden bout of hyperventilation.

"Shit, she's having a panic attack," Jessie exclaimed, rushing over to help Tifa to a chair. "Deep breaths, Honey. Deep breaths."

After regaining control over her lungs, she craned her neck upwards to her best friend, praying hers was not the only voice of reason in the group. "You're with me on this one, right, Jessie?"

Continuing to run her fingers through Tifa's hair, Jessie looked over to Barret, silently pleading with him to help find an easy way to express herself. Fearing the silence had passed for too long, she turned to face Tifa once more, hoping the sight of her tears would provide the impetus to develop an explanation. Alas, her overbearing guilt had exiled all words from her tongue.

Ignoring Biggs and Wedge, safe in the knowledge that they wouldn't be able to help her even if they wanted to, both unable to challenge Jessie's intellect or Barret's stubbornness, she took to her feet and stormed off, leaving the group to wallow in their own ignorance.

**_Friday, October 1st, 9:57pm – Mercer Park, Upper Plate_**

The stars were not the only luminaries in the night sky. It was a canvas of dark beauty, infused with ripples of the lifestream. It gave her the perspective to clear her mind and enjoy her date with Reno, reminding herself that although she was structurally insignificant in this universe, she was mentally, spiritually and emotionally powerful. Whilst words on their own were feeble and weak, those she spoke earlier today could have inadvertently deflected the reaper's scythe from the necks of thousands of innocent people. It gave her a sense of purpose, a sense of power under the blanket of magnificent stars, just visible through the smog belched from the towers of Reactor Number Three.

Her dreamy expression upon staring at the night sky remained glued in position as she faced Reno, his elbow propping his body off the ground as he lay beside a picnic basket. Revalidating his mysterious charm, he had taken her to the swankiest of upmarket restaurants on the Upper Plate, bypassing queues, waiting times and the obligation to make a reservation, and demanded they deliver their most extravagant dishes to the closed park on the other side of town. Making no fuss of the matter, many of them speaking so highly of him they were one step away from genuflecting before him, they complied with his wishes with a smile on their face.

Even if it was just a routine, it certainly was impressive, leaving Tifa with a veritable puzzle to crack.

"I'm not saying I believe in reincarnation in religious terms," Reno spoke after sucking an oyster from its shell. "But I do in scientific terms."

"You're telling me you've found conclusive evidence that reincarnation occurs?"

"I haven't discovered anything. I'm just using the information I, and _you_, learned in high school. With this information there's conclusive evidence that we'll all be reincarnated into something else."

"So, you believe in karma then?"

"That's a common misconception. You see, I'm merely stating we all get reincarnated into other things. I didn't say I believed in karma. Whether the object of our reincarnation is a bra or a toilet brush doesn't rely on our transgressions or our charitable acts. It's merely up to the hands of fate."

"Wait, wait, wait," she interjected, rolling her finger around the rim of her champagne glass. "I still don't understand about this scientific principle that I'm apparently already aware of."

"Well, when we die our souls pass through the lifestream and our flesh decomposes in the earth. The lifestream replenishes the earth and encourages the generation of trees and vegetation from the nutrients in our buried flesh. It's the circle of life. But our bones don't decompose so quickly. Over millions of years they eventually becomes oil or coal, which is then extracted from the earth by industrious humans and converted into plastics that make up virtually everything we use in our day to day life. It happened to the creatures living millions of years ago and sooner rather than later it'll happen to us."

"Well, there's no flaw in your logic. Except by the time you and I turn into oil, the industrious humans of the future will probably have no use for us, provided technology moves as fast as your mouth does."

She chuckled as he playfully nudged her before lying completely flat on the grass stained blanket.

"Seriously though," he said, his head resting against her lap, "it's interesting to think the very atoms that make our bodies could have existed in the middle of a burning sun or in a stick of radioactive mako. The possibilities are endless."

"It's kinda romantic to think we could be made up of stars right above us," she replied, halted by his blaring cell phone.

"You mention the word _romantic_ and this thing is bound to go off." He looked at the screen and exhaled heavily. "It's just my boss. I'll turn it off..."

"No don't," she responded quickly. "It could be something important."

"You sure?"

"Honestly, it's fine."

"I'll just be a minute, I swear," he replied, dusting himself off before answering his phone, his voice slowly diminishing in volume as he wandered out of earshot.

Reaching the highly fenced edge of the park and the upper plate, he poked his head through the black iron bars and glanced down at the crescent of shantytown beneath him. Separated by a mile of oxygen, the stench below had still not managed to dissipate away from his sensitive nostrils. They were all working together to piss him off; every resident of the slums forcing him to inhale their stale air, rising up with the wind, followed by wails of gospel choirs penetrating the tin roofs of makeshift churches.

"What the hell are you doing, Rude? I told you not to call me tonight. I'm busy!" he announced through clenched teeth.

"_I don't care. We've got a Code Blue._"

"Code Blue? What's that mean?"

"_Incriminating evidence_."

"Alright, care to elaborate on that?"

"_Homemade explosives stacked by the wine rack. How does that sound?_"

"What? She just left them lying around in her basement? She's can't be that stupid."

_"She's not. The basement was completely secure. I could only gain access to it after I interrogated the barmaid with a flash of a fake health inspector's badge. She showcased a very special arcade machine under the minor threat of permanent closure for unacceptable levels of sanitation. When she left to tend to her customers I snooped around a little and found an unlatched case containing a bunch of rusted metal hooked up to a lot of colourful wires."_

_"_Holy shit."

_"Holy shit indeed. __When_ _I called bomb squad and explained the setup, they confirmed that you're girlfriend's carrying a cheap alternative to mako infused dynamite developed by Wutaian guerrillas. Whoever this bitch is, she's got connections that go way deeper than anything we anticipated. AVALANCHE is making ties with Wutaians and probably anyone else that hates Shinra's guts, which practically leaves everyone a suspect."_

"Shit, I can't believe it. She seemed like such an ordinary chick to me."

_"I told you she'd lead us to AVALANCHE eventually. I've been shadowing her ever since the top brass published the report on the Nibelheimian fire. Being the sole survivor of an unnatural disaster that wipes out your entire hometown and everyone in it is likely to disturb the soundest of minds. And more importantly, I'd like to stress again, I was right and you owe me thirty grand."_

"Wait a minute. There isn't a chance in hell I bet that much..."

"_Don't worry, Reno. I don't expect you to let your collection of moths escape your wallet.__ Anyway, I'm gonna take all this evidence back to HQ. Do you want me to get the order from Tseng?"_

"No," he replied instantly, barely allowing Rude to finish.

"_What's the deal? I can get the order to get this over with."_

"The deal is I haven't got anything out of her yet. Proving she's determined to revive AVALANCHE is only a part of our mission. You said it yourself: we don't know how deep her connections go. First it's the Wutaians, then the assholes down at Fort Condor, then before you know it her death could trigger a Midgarian revolt."

"_What are you talking about_?"

"Those explosives you found were created for a purpose: to 'save the planet'. So what's gonna happen if we kill the barmaid and the bombs evolve into devices of revenge instead of survival, huh? Don't you get it? We need to know everything, and I mean everything, before I'll feel safe cutting the noose on this one. I need to know how she operates, who she operates with, and how loyal those operatives are. Judging by the time I've spent with her so far, I doubt she'll be willing to remove the cards from her chest until she trusts me a little more."

"_Since when did you become the expert of interrogation? From what I recall the only information you can extract and remember from a woman is whether she spits or swallows. Seriously though, I'd love to hear the next evolutionary step up from your classy, one-line ice-breakers."_

"Listen. Just leave the bombs there and plant a couple of wires. I'll deal with all this shit after my hangover subsides in the morning... or the afternoon."

"_That's a waste of time. I found Mako reactor blueprints, Reno. We're talking billions of our employer's gil down the toilet here."_

"You think she's gonna cause eight reactor meltdowns in one night by herself? AVALANCHE is composed of more than one frail little barmaid and we need to know who those people are."

"_Fine, I'm not the best at planting wires but I'll give it a shot. It can only do me good to find that rebellious streak within me."_

_"_Atta boy. As soon as we find out who else is involved in this we'll get our orders and start our killing spree. Capiche?"

"_Whatever."_

"OK. Goodnight, Sweetheart."

"_Goodnight, Honey."_

He muttered the word _priceless_ as he snapped his phone shut and slowly made his way back to the blanket and a daydreaming Tifa, wearing a store-bought sad expression, fully aware that her vulnerability would render her unable to see through it.

"Um… are you okay?" she asked a little hesitantly, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear as she leaned over to pat his shoulder, still cold to touch from the chilly night air.

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine," he replied, barely blinking to produce a teary over-spill.

Her palm traversed the skin of his neck, the warmth of her fingers radiating through his shirt.

"It's OK. You can talk about it."

He turned back and smiled. "It's refracting through the atmosphere," he stated, quietly.

"What?"

"The moon. It's reflecting the sun's light which is refracting through the atmosphere. That's why it looks red when it rises."

She looked back at him, through his yawning pupils, and smiled. Their lips were mere inches apart before she whispered, "When you said I would be the one kissing you, I really didn't believe you."

"Well, I always keep my promises."

She moved closer, allowing her lips to dance with his. The electricity jumped between their wrestling tongues transmitting the taste of champagne and lipstick. It should have been awkward or terrifying, but she had never felt as close to anyone in her entire life as she dragged her fingers through his hair and playfully bit his lower lip.

Her moment ended with a satisfied sigh, resting against his shoulder, allowing five minutes of wonderful silence to drift by before she eventually said, "I still don't know how you got that kiss out of me."


	3. God

**3**

**_Monday, October 4th, 9:13am – TURK HQ; Projection Theatre C19, Shinra Building_**

He picked at a few morsels of food with his little finger as he sat in his famous leather chair. It stood, adorned with gold tassels and solid ivory arm rests wrapped in thick cushions, situated at the head of the ten meter metallic table as cold and bleak as his heart. The grandeur of his throne was his statement of authority: he was in charge, and not a single soul could hold a candle to his inscrutable success and power.

Of course, nobody would dare think he was compensating for anything. Not in Heidegger's mind anyway.

Tseng waited patiently at the opposite end of the room, holding his projector control in one hand and a few cue cards in the other. His mind rarely ever wandered too far, even when trapped in the most boring room in the planet; a tasteless expression of minimalism complete with bland white walls leading up to a huge window, a monstrous design of bullet-proof glass, emerging from the wall like a hideous beast in a fairy tale. He folded his arms over his chest as tightly as he could upon viewing the shafts of tinted light glowing around the throne, too afraid to touch it or its occupant, transforming it into a frightful set of pitch black geometrical shapes.

His solitary audience member faced the window at the ocean a few miles beyond the city in what seemed to be a state of intelligent pondering. A few secretaries and receptionists buzzed around him; one holding his cigar and ashtray, the other holding his files and memorandums, and others just there for the purpose of making him seem far more important than he actually was.

He snapped his chubby fingers, creating a ghastly noise that echoed through his shaded haven; an action that soon prompted his ashtray girl to hand him a fresh cigar. He took a few puffs and coughed as the rich smoke stained his throat. It was the taste of success.

Tseng rubbed his forehead in disgust.

_This is the man that is my so called leader? Am I supposed to follow him into battle? He is not worthy of my respect._

He cleared his throat loudly to obtain his superior's attention.

The throne slowly revolved with the push of a button in the armrest, the glare from the halogen bulbs creeping over him like daylight over a horizon to reveal a large pearly white smile hidden amongst a thick mess of jet hair.

The throne's revolution stopped, along with the electronic buzzing noises that did little to reduce its tenant's ego.

Heidegger placed his cigar back in its ashtray and shooed everyone out of the room.

"You may begin your presentation, Commander Tseng."

"Should we not wait for everyone else to arrive?"

"_Everyone else_?"

"Yes, sir. The special agents, the chief media directors, the mission organizers -- and I think the President himself would like to hear this, don't you?"

"Maybe you should leave the thinking to me, Tseng. I'm the leader of this unit and all final orders go through me, you got that?"

Tseng inhaled heavily, nodding his head.

"As you wish, sir."

He moved over to a small podium with a microphone protruding from it and tugged at a small catch on its underside, releasing an over-sized screen from a corresponding slit in the ceiling. Its motor whirred and buzzed like Heidegger's chair, always an added pleasantry.

He fiddled with his laptop for a few moments before an image appeared on the screen. It was an aerial shot of the Slums from one of the many security cameras built in to the underside of the Plate.

The lights dimmed, allowing him to stare at the dusty flare within the projector beam, his usual focal point during presentations.

"This is an overview of the Sector Seven Slums. Precisely two weeks ago we received tip offs from our Slums Reconnaissance Branch that a new chapter of AVALANCHE, the terrorist contingency intent on destroying the Shinra, has reformed. As of yet we have no dates or records of when that occurred."

The image zoomed in on a particular row of buildings.

"Speculation and rumours led us to a specific area."

He clicked another button to circle one building.

"This is where we believe the perpetrators have decided to set up camp; Tifa's Seventh Heaven. It's a bar slash restaurant on the corner of Fifth Street, Sector Seven. It gains substantial revenue – the fiscal details are written in the documents we sent you yesterday."

The image suddenly shifted to that of a passport, the important details highlighted. The photograph in the top left corner displayed a young woman with flowing chocolate hair. Her warm smile and large eyes hardly made her appropriate to pin up on the ten most wanted list; then again, all women intimidated Heidegger.

"The owner of the bar is one Tifa Lockhart, born in Nibelheim, possibly the sole survivor of the great fire. Records show she moved to the Slums when she was fifteen and opened her bar a few years later. Our intelligence has led us to believe that she's the main benefactor for this terrorist syndicate.

"Our fears were soon heightened when we scanned her credit card transactions and found she had been purchasing materials to make homemade explosives. One of our operatives scanned the building and found them. We have not yet taken in them as evidence as we wish to remain under the radar until we can gain enough information to exterminate every single threat to out company and our city. We're currently, under your order, sending another one of our agents to pose as a romantic interest to extract more information from her, continuing with this approach until further notice."

He toyed with his projector control once more to switch the images.

Two more passports.

"These two men were spotted by surveillance equipment we planted in Tifa's Seventh Heaven – the basement so to speak. We picked up video footage and ran background checks on them both. The black man is Barret Wallace, an illegal alien in the city, born in Corel. Our records show he moved to Midgar just six months ago. It gives us an early indication of when the new chapter may have been established. The other man is Samuel Biggs. He's home-grown – the first of them to be born in the Slums. We currently lost video transmission but we are still picking up audio, giving us reason to believe there are at least two more unidentified members.

"Agent Stockholm was the initial agent assigned to the case but I recently assigned Agent Carter in an auxiliary position to gather intelligence about each and every AVALANCHE member. He will be monitoring the establishment whilst Agent Stockholm will try to develop a relationship with Lockhart to pump her for information.

"Now, we have reason to believe they may be planning an attack on the city's mako reactors and the sooner we get this information the sooner we will get the order to exterminate them…"

"Wait, wait, wait. Get the order? Get the order from whom?" Heidegger boomed, unashamedly expressing his impatience.

"From the president, sir."

"I don't have to remind you that _I_ give the orders to you Tseng. I do not work under the President, I work beside him."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't think it's such a good idea to draw this on for any longer. If you've found the incriminating evidence that's all I need. I'll give the order to the media directors to put their faces on every single news broadcast in that god-forsaken city. With this current turn of events we can turn the general public on them and take the bad publicity off us. We can blame them for everything. They'll be our new scapegoats…"

"Sir, with all due respect…"

Heidegger leapt off his throne and waddled over to the other side of the room.

Face to face, within inches of Tseng, he whispered, "I don't like that tone. Do not forget who you're talking to here. _I _am the boss. _I _own you and every other insignificant agent in this unit. In here, _I am God_. Do you understand me?"

Tseng bit his tongue and slowly nodded along. He couldn't let the humiliation cost him his career.

And so the response as always was a disheartening, "Yes, sir…"

**_Monday, October 4th, 6:20 pm - Coppice Hill, Kalm_**

She didn't want to seem preoccupied but it was impossible to think of anything other than her brief cameo on the news. After avoiding the trains and walking back to her bar the other day she, along with Jessie, informed the others of their new predicament. Huddling together like cold penguins around Jessie's computer, they watched the video feed in terror.

AVALANCHE had been rumbled.

It had only taken a few moments for it to sink in before Barret lifted himself up and searched the entire building for bugs, getting progressively irate as the seconds ticked by. Biggs however was the hero of the hour, finding a pinhole camera and microphone strapped to the ceiling with a thin sheet of adhesive plastic.

It left such a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. She felt so violated.

Shinra had gotten their slimy hands into her life in the form of a mysterious health inspector. It had taken a long interrogation to get the truth out of Sheila, but when they eventually did it only left Tifa feeling more despondent. In all honesty, she wasn't expecting to feel any better about the situation, but hiding behind ignorance, as blissful as it was, just left an acrid taste in her mouth.

She shook her head in an attempt to clear the nagging thoughts from it and looked back at Reno. She could only hope he hadn't seen the news. She could only hope this would not ruin the first decent relationship she had had in years. Then again, in her world, hoping never amounted to anything really.

They had been sitting on the hood of his car for the past twelve minutes; just long enough for the cool windscreen to heat up to a comfortable level against their backs.

Propping herself higher on the bonnet, she leaned in closer to Reno, smelling the soft hints of that familiar cologne dabbed against his neck.

He had arrived a few minutes late and out of breath by the door, careful not to exhale too loudly in front of a very irritable looking Barret. But, unfortunately, meeting the gang for the first time had not gone as smoothly as either of them would have hoped.

Wedge, a little emasculated by Reno, ignored him whenever the conversation was thrown his way, pretending to work on a difficult crossword in the Midgar Observer. Biggs and Jessie, both cautious of anyone not aware of their secrets, did not take Wedge's approach. They answered his friendly questions, mirroring his politeness almost to the extent of sarcasm. They were all just the usual inquiries strangers would ask: _How are you? Where did you meet? How much does rent cost in this Sector? _And so on and so forth. It was up to them to end the charade of politeness by bombarding him with questions like stone cold litigators, taking a total disregard for courtesy or even political correctness.

They tried to hold in the laughter as they had watched him squirm in his seat, ignoring Tifa's '_What are you guys doing?' _face, later informing her that they were just being protective of her.

In all honesty, they just loved hazing the new guy. But if he made Tifa happy then they would eventually start being nice to him – two or three months down the line.

She could not have apologised enough for her friends' behaviour as they had quickly made their way to his car and travelled out of the slums, soon leaving the awkwardness behind as they flamboyantly skidded to a stop by the perimeter checkpoint. Three burly military guards stood by the gateway, machine guns ready in hand, as they peered rather angrily through the window. After negotiating with a Sector Clearance Card, they were granted access to the outside world.

Their first stop had been by a small ice cream parlour on the outskirts of Kalm. The infrastructural pillars of the building looked plump, painted white with downward spirals of reds and blues like jumbo sticks of candy. Her new heels were given their first test drive over the black and white chequered tiles that were all too perfect to dance on, immersing her in a fifties diner, lacking only a jukebox to really complete the ensemble. It was a wonderfully camp and visually challenging building to be in, almost as though it had stepped out of the pages of Alice in Wonderland itself. Growing accustomed to the dark, disparaging city of vice for half a decade, she had forgotten places like this still existed.

After five minutes of eating ice cream and a half an hour of flirting had passed they drove through the small town together. The tiny buildings and rustic atmosphere almost overwhelmed her to the point of tears. Gaping with awe, she stared at the beautiful cobbled link paths, the colourful gardens, the doves and pigeons flittering around the tables outside restaurants and pubs.

The smell of the rain on the slate pavements drifted her back into the fluffy clouds of her memories. The nostalgia sent tingles through her spine, the town reminding her heavily of Nibelheim, her one true home.

It was a lot to take in.

After the small tour had ended they drove up a small hill, unoccupied by buildings or edifices; just them and the road, meandering through native forests and grasslands. They parked at the top by a clearing of grass overlooking the town, sitting on the hood of the car, staring at the brilliant azure rock-faces of the Mythril Mines and the setting sun, emulsifying the skyline with deep and elegant ruby colours.

It was beautiful.

Reno took her hand and rubbed it with his thumb.

"I know you've been living with that eyesore of a dish above you for more than you can stand, so I thought I'd take you to see the sunset."

"It's really amazing. I think I'm gonna cry."

"It really makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

She smiled and enjoyed the tapestry of colours in the sky, choosing to ignore the nagging voices in her head forcing her to blurt out embarrassing things or to ask ridiculous questions.

In the end, she went the simple response. "Makes you wonder about what?"

"About life in general. What are we all doing here? What caused this whole world – this whole Universe – as diverse and amazingly rich as it is to develop from a single point?

"It _almost_ makes me wonder if there's a God. Although not enough for me to convert to any major religion."

This incredibly unsexy conversational diversion would appear strange to anyone that knew him to the extent of using the phrase '_That's very un-Reno'_. Although the reason was borne of a very simple and a very _Reno_ origin: he had forgotten to read his script.

Most of it heavily accentuated her beauty. According to the script-writers, as long as she received enough compliments she would be under his spell for good.

He always did have trouble remembering things, especially bullshit written by lowlife agents that did not have the balls or the talent to leave their offices or their mothers' basements, and this trouble seemed to stem from his ability to drink, to arrive late to the debriefing seminars and to not give a _tiny rat's ass_.

She furrowed her brows and looked up once more, this time met by his piercing eyes.

"You're an atheist?"

"No, I'm open to the concept of _God_. I just don't believe in religion."

"How does that work?" she giggled, gently nudging him and provoking a smile.

"I'm not one to disprove the existence of a creator but I am one to demolish religious laws as such. I mean, sure, seven hundred years ago religion made sense. You sin; you go to hell. It was a way to keep the general public in a state of order and it was a good idea. Nowadays we have democracy and the criminal justice system.

"Now I'll be the first to point out that they too have their flaws, but they basically work by the same principles. We do bad things; we get locked up in jail. Because of this we no longer need religion, especially religions following strict rules and regulations that don't make sense but are the mixed up products of cultures created centuries ago."

"I suppose I see your point," she replied, moving her head back over his chest and watching the sun reduce itself to a sliver of orange over the rocky horizon.

"Are you a religious person?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Well, my dad was Jewish and my mother was Catholic."

"Nice – religious segregation in the family. It's always a hot topic for confusion."

"Tell me about it."

"So which path did you take?"

"I followed my mom. Life's easier when you don't have to worry about keeping kosher."

He laughed at the response. The sound escaped from the walls of his chest and into her ears, prompting her to laugh too.

"You said _was_. Are you still Catholic?" he asked.

"I guess I am in a way. I go to church whenever I'm in need, which seems kinda selfish, but if there is a Lord I'm sure he won't be so critical of me. I guess I just lost the faith somewhere along the way, especially when I moved to Midgar. You see so much bad stuff happen there. It makes you wonder if there's any point in praying for a solution."

He leaned further back and allowed his legs to dangle off the front of the car as the sun eventually disappeared and the sky, once awash with warm colours, blanketed itself in a dark purple.

"That makes a lot of sense. It's a pity many others don't see it that way, but then again, many people are blinded by money and power. They think they are allowed to do evil, not because they don't fear God but mainly because they think they _are_ God."

"Is that what led you astray?"

"I don't think I was ever in a flock in the first place, so there never was anywhere to be led astray from – but I've always been happier this way. Live and let live is my motto." _What are you talking about you idiot! Start flirting again. You're wasting valuable time._ "Uh… you know what's really funny?"

"What?"

"I remember hearing something from a religious man. I can't remember his faith but I don't think it matters. Anyway, he told me that we humans are made of earth, the devils and evil spirits are made of fire and the angels are made of light. At the start of time it was just little old God and his angels.

"The angels were pure and obeyed God's every single command, prostrating before him for eternity; they never committed even the most trivial of sins. He then made the earth for humans – but he gave humans free will and the ability to make mistakes.

"Now, if you look at humans, what do you see? Purity? No way. You see murder, rape, adultery and cold-hearted vultures like President Shinra and his cronies sucking the life out of the planet and leaving the people of the Slums to rot in their own filth. There are so many evil-doers and criminals in this world – and many of them don't even know God exists! So, I always thought that the biggest flaw with religion is this simple question…

"What is the point? Why make humans; these malevolent horrible creatures that wouldn't give God the time of day, when he already has angels that don't make the tiniest of mistakes from now until the end of infinity? That one simple question left the religious man speechless."

"Y'know, you make a good point."

"I make an amazing point. But putting all that aside, do you know what I'd love to ask _you_ right now, Tifa?"

She sat upright and looked into his eyes once more; now easy to read, filled with passion and lust.

"What?"

He stroked her cheek and moved a few tendrils of hair littering her face.

"I would like to know why God would make pure and beautiful creatures like angels when he already has you."

She blushed and shook her head.

"I don't know if that's incredibly beautiful or incredibly corny."

"Yeah, I'd probably opt for corny but I still know your affection for me has shot way up."

She giggled, gently elbowed him in the chest and looked up at the stars.

"You think you know everything, right?"

"I _know _I know everything."

"Alright, smart guy. Do you know what that constellation of stars is called?" she asked, circling her fingers in the air in a general direction.

"Uh… _Orion's_… _shield_." He winked as she turned back and smacked her lips. "Well, am I right?"

"Well I don't actually know," she replied. "I haven't seen the stars in five years so my knowledge of the subject is kinda blurry."

"Yup. You see, I knew _that_."

She laughed, leaned closer to him and pressed her lips against his. They kissed under the blanket of stars, overlooking the twinkling lights of the small town below them.

He was ready to call it quits for the day; letting her dangle and crave the attention and affection he had showered her with. Even if she ripped her clothes off, spread her body over the trunk of the car and begged to feel him inside of her, he would reject her for the sake of the mission.

So, after they stopped kissing and she said, with a new softer tone, "Do you wanna come back to my place?"

It was up to him to tame the restless creature in his pants and say, "_Sorry, I've got an early morning tomorrow_."

Instead, he quivered as she stroked his inner thigh, giving the reins to _Little Reno_, his overpowering master, when he responded with, "Sure, I'd love to."


	4. Cracks

**4**

**_Monday, October 4th, 7:33pm – Tifa's Apartment, Sector Seven_**

She unlocked the door, bashing it open with her back as he pressed her up against it, allowing the light in the hallway to splash into the dark room. They kissed one another, moving towards the sofa in a clumsy embrace, neither willing to let the other go. Falling upon the sofa, he led upon her and kissed her neck, enjoying the sensation her soft warm skin produced over his lips. Her perfume danced in his nose – an intoxicating aroma of femininity.

She sat up and moved him back.

"How about a glass of wine?"

"That sounds great," he replied, watching her leave slowly to the kitchen, trying not to let crossed signals confuse him.

Pretending to look at his watch, he began to whisper into his cuff-link microphone.

"Check it out, Rude; sex on the second date. She's even sluttier than I thought. Anyway, I better get back to work. Oh, and I hope you're having fun back at the office finishing off the paperwork."

He smiled as a familiar sounding _'Fuck you'_ rang through his earpiece.

Tifa found the crystal goblets in the cabinet and gently poured the crimson liquid into them. At this, the wine drinking stage of the night, she would often let her nerves get the better of her and begin to doubt herself. Was she moving too fast? Was sex really the only way to open him up?

Shaking the feelings away, she found a simple answer to her own questions. Of course it may have been risky for her to initiate the advancement of the relationship so quickly, but maybe it was alright. Maybe he was just an anachronistic gentleman that liked to wait things out until she was ready, like the tuxedo wearing, moustache adorned men she saw in the matinee movies. Then again, she wasn't exactly expecting him to rip her clothes off in a fit of passion after the second date.

_The second date_? _Holy cow, maybe I am moving too fast!_

No, she thought, she was just the product of a new generation of women: strong, dominant, in charge of and proud of her sexuality. Either way, it didn't really make much difference. She wanted to have sex with him just for that raw satisfaction. Branded by the news as a subversive terrorist on a mission to blow everything she saw to smithereens, she had to take any opportunity she could. This may have been the last man that would take an interest in her.

She kicked off her high heels and walked back into the lounge, handing Reno a glass as she sat beside him. They sipped at their drinks and stared at one another, wondering if they should wait or make the first move.

He eventually took the lead by stroking the errant strands of hair from her forehead once more before they leapt into another tumultuous tongue wrestle.

Placing her goblet on the table, she stood up and held out her hand. He took it, suddenly yanked off the seat, and mustered up enough courage to ask her the stupidest question of his life.

"Listen, Tifa, things are moving pretty fast here. I just have to ask you if you're really ready for this."

She grabbed his tie, using it as a leash as she nodded and dragged him into the bedroom.

He removed his jacket, threw it on the floor and began to unbutton his shirt as they remained entangled in a passionate embrace. Falling onto the bed, shaking the floorboards as they did so, they continued to fight their way out of constrictive garments until they were bare.

Hot skin, dilated pupils and dry lips vociferated the intensity better than words ever could. They rolled in and out of the bed sheets, still passionately kissing and losing themselves in the moment.

The glow from the nearby streetlights brushed past the fluttering curtains, creating the appearance of an orange halo around her body. Her skin felt hot to touch, soft and sweet. He caressed it with the back of his hands, starting from the underside of her thigh to the base of her breasts.

As every moment sped past, the intensity and passion boiled together. He began to overpower her and she began to let soft moans escape, gradually increasing her volume the more sexually aggressive he became.

He kissed her stomach, moving further up, almost as though he were stalling for time. It didn't escape her attention.

With a nervous laugh, he stopped and looked under the covers.

_Come on, Little Reno. Rise and shine. Shit! I'm twenty-three not sixty. This shouldn't be happening! _

_Hey, God, if you're actually up there sitting on your cloud then stop being so spiteful and help me out a little._

Of course, God was not on his side tonight, and soon enough they both stopped.

Tifa sat upright, holding the bed sheets over her chest, smiling in a way that only made matters worse for '_Little Reno_'.

"Uh… is everything alright?" she asked.

"I-I really… have no idea what's going on. Uh… I think I'm just under a lot of… uh... stress and I... uh…"

He shook his head, waiting for her to say something reassuring. After allowing five gruelling minutes of silence to pass, he eventually jumped out of bed and gathered his clothes.

"I should get going… I'll give you a call tomorrow… uh… see you later."

She stared out of the window as he darted across the street in his socks and underwear, trying for his sake to repress the smile.

It soon erupted into a snort.

Than a full blown belly laugh.

"Oh my God. I think I need a stiff drink."

She always was great at making jokes when nobody was around to hear them.

**_Wednesday, October 6th, 10:40am – Whitworth Street, Sector Seven_**

Of all the places he could have chosen for the awkward conversation he had been rehearsing in the mirror and publicly dreading, he couldn't have picked a less romantic spot in the entire decaying city. Underneath the bus shelter on Whitworth Street, an area popularised by drug addicts looking to score some cheap smack, he sat, awaiting her arrival.

The area was even popular with the affluent plate-dwellers that travelled down here, held their noses and rolled back their sleeves. They brought their own needles and such with them, even though the fear of communicable diseases would advertise their identities and prime them as susceptible targets for local thugs and gangsters.

It didn't matter to them. Cheap smack is cheap smack.

Trying not to lean back against the graffiti clad glass wall of the bus shelter, he placed his hands in his pockets and shook his head. Maybe it would have been beneficial to acknowledge the area as a place he knew well and loathed. Of all the things swilling in his mind, the prospect of vulgarity was the least of his problems, so he should have taken advantage of it.

He grew typically impatient as the seconds ticked by, the boredom gnawing away at him.

_Why did I come so early_?

He had told her to meet him at eleven, and yet, there he was, half an hour from the moment of truth.

It could have been the anticipation, it could have been the expired coffee, it could have been his bowels; either way, his stomach was trying its hardest to churn away the butterflies wreaking havoc within.

"Hey, Reno,"

He turned back, employing coincidence as the explanation for her early arrival.

"Hey, Tifa," he said, sliding over to the other side of the bench. "Have a seat."

She stroked a few strands of hair behind her ear and sat down besides him, choosing not to look at him. She wasn't angry, just a little confused, a little more humiliated and a lot more embarrassed for his sake.

She took a deep breath and a quick look around. There had been no need for him to worry about the emotional setting and the loss of romanticism that ensued. It was just another street in her city like any other.

Finding the courage to look at him, she could not help but feel a little deflated at the sight of his attire. His elegant suits that had been tailored to mould his slim but athletic body had been replaced by tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt with the sarcastically tasteful words_ Beaver Patrol_ printed upon it. She did not understand that the shirt's rather loud catchphrase was also the name of Reno's favourite band and had allowed it to subconsciously sour the mood.

After all this time worrying about the vulgarity of the meeting place he had forgotten entirely about his clothes.

"You wanted to talk to me?" she asked; a statement in all reality rather than a question. "I'm listening."

"About that Monday night--"

She quickly interjected, lifting her palm in the air.

"Listen, you really don't have to talk about that if it makes you uncomfortable. I understand that people have off days."

"But I still feel as though I should explain. Look, it's nothing to do with you, honestly. You're probably the most beautiful woman I've ever met." He tried to hide his slightly lopsided grimace. He really shouldn't have said probably. '_Definitely!_'_ Don't give her any reason to enhance her diffidence. Draw her out more._ "You're _definitely_ the most beautiful woman I've ever met."

The flattery did not seem to be as effective as it had been a few days ago. Back then he was simply a stranger. She didn't even know his name. The mystery may have been the sexiest factor.

If he were to juxtapose the other factors in ascending order of importance then the mystery definitely would have been in the top ten. _Two strangers knowing each other intimately without knowing one another's names - what a line_! Still, the mystery would be nowhere near penis size or affluence. He may have only been a twenty-three-year-old but it didn't stop him from thinking the old fashioned way.

Having time to reflect on his current thoughts he rubbed his temples and sighed. Perhaps his flaccidity held a deeper meaning and origin.

"You wanna know how many times I hear that from my regulars? Believe me, Prince Charming could be sitting on his noble steed saying that to me and I would hardly bat an eyelid."

She did not mean to sound so vain but had no other method of syntactical conveyance.

"I just--"

"You really don't have to justify anything, Reno. I like you a lot and I'm willing to wait for as long as it takes." After throwing his ego to the ropes, she was now kicking it in the crotch. "To be honest with you I was moving pretty fast anyway. I'm never really so forward. I mean, we hardly know each other and I--"

"My uncle died."

With a substantial pause for breath, and another substantial pause to make sense of things, she simply replied with, "Uh… what?"

"The night before we went out on that date I got a call from my dad. His brother, my uncle Paul, collapsed in a supermarket in Junon. Apparently there was a blood clot in his brain or something." He crossed his arms and leaned forward to salvage any trapped warmth under his t-shirt. "I was really close to him and uh… it just came as a bit of a shock and I was in a really bad place."

Tifa dared to move her hand over to his shoulder and leaned forward, too.

"Oh. OK. Uh, I'm sorry for your loss. You know you could have just cancelled our date, I would have understood--"

"No."

He turned to face her once more, this time completely losing all fear of appearing too vulgar in his unflattering clothes at the lacklustre bus shelter. Looking up at the cracked glass ceiling of the shelter seemed to strain his eyes enough to produce a few tears.

Upon closer inspection he soon wondered why a bus stop would need an accompanying shelter when there already was a giant shelter over the entire city. Was it created to uplift the spirits of the citizens and to make the city seem as close to normality as possible? Or was it simply a sick subconscious joke played by the sector council who were possibly more bored than he was?

Soon realising he had spent too much time looking at the ceiling and not enough time explaining why he could not function properly on their previous date, he wiped his eyes and nodded.

"No, Tifa. I've found that over the years I've had a _lot_ of problems with my relationships. I can never seem to find that perfect person and I always end up getting drawn away from the stupid little human flaws that are nothing at first but then seem to amplify."

He took a look at her changing reaction. She was becoming more difficult to read.

"After these women dump me and I get left with another bout of heartache for the next couple of weeks, I have to learn the hard way that those blemishes were my own." He reached out to hold her hand. "But when I looked into your eyes that first time we met each other a week ago… I could feel a new emotion stirring within me… a more tangible emotion that wasn't skin deep. I can actually see beyond your beauty to the person that you are.

"I guess what I'm saying is I didn't want to lose my chance with you and that no amount of bad news could have kept me away from you."

She waited, still searching for the appropriate amount of conviction hidden in bullshit.

_His uncle died? I suppose it's obscure enough to be true… or obscure enough to be a lie._

"Still, I wanna take it slow from here. Is that OK with you?" she asked, a warm smile perched upon her lips.

"You can't believe how perfect that sounds."

She kissed him on the cheek, her warm yet dry lips scraping against his face for a few seconds or so before she got up and walked away.

"Give me a call when you feel it's the right time. Be careful not to take too long though. I wanna take it slow, but I can't wait forever now, can I?" she said, her smile melting away as soon as she turned back.

**_Wednesday, October 6th, 11:13am – Tifa's Seventh Heaven, Sector Seven_**

Jessie wiped away the strands of hair that had adhered to the sweat on her forehead. She took a deep breath and finished making the final repairs to the detonation wires with all the dexterity of a skilled brain surgeon and all the composure of botanist pruning a few leaves of her garden hedge.

The hard part was over; all that was left was the attachment of the new casing.

In all honesty, she had not reached the same level of boorish arrogance that Barret or Biggs had regarding the mission. She still did not feel comfortable overlooking the deaths of so many innocent people, often losing sleep as result of her loud conscience. After Tifa's rather strident objections it was obvious why she would feel so guilty.

She had no idea whether the boys felt the same way, but it didn't matter if they did. They would be forced to hide behind their testosterone, as usual, because they didn't have _feelings_ and junk like that. They simply wanted to plant some bombs and watch a bit of late night wrestling.

Hearing the bell above the front door she quickly finished her job and dusted her hands. Turning back she was welcomed by Tifa, pushing the beads of the kitchen's entrance aside for her to enter.

"Hey Tifa, how's life treating you these days?"

Tifa found a mug in a cabinet, dumped in a teaspoon of cheap coffee and several teaspoons of sugar.

"You know… I think I'm gonna give up on men."

"What?"

"Seriously, I just don't get them. They always say that women are hard to understand. Apparently we don't know what we want or how we want it. Well let me tell you, men are worse. They have no idea what the word honesty means. They think it might hinder their chances of scoring if they tell us they're still a virgin or that they don't have stable income. Sex and money! That's all they care about." She poured in boiling water from the kettle and blew the steam before taking a sip. "I think I should pack up my things and become a nun or something. God's the only man I can trust now."

"I hate to burst your bubble, Teef, but God is a woman."

"No believe me, God's a man. This world is just riddled with disease, famine, murder, corruption and - and you know what? If God were a woman, she would never have allowed the world to get this messed up."

Jessie recoiled, thanking her lucky stars for the fact that Tifa had left _terrorism_ out of the laundry list of God's screw ups.

"OK, Tifa, how about you tell me what's going on? Is this something to do with that Reno guy?"

"No it's… actually…" she stared into the swirling black coffee and sighed. "It's kinda embarrassing."

"Come on you can tell me."

"Alright, look, you remember how you said I would only be able to see a man's true colours after I had sex with him? Well, I haven't even done anything with Reno yet and I'm already starting to see the cracks in his personality."

Jessie found her washcloth and wiped the oil off her fingers, nodding her head along to the familiar sage advice. "Are these major cracks? I mean, are we talking cracks as big as Cosmo Canyon or as big as the cracks in Wedge's leather purse?"

"Nothing too major."

"Then don't sweat it. Nobody's perfect. I mean, do you honestly think you can find another man on a level higher than Reno's in this junkyard of a city?" She paused for Tifa's solemn shake of the head. "Then just stick it out for a little while longer. You can get over these first few hurdles and you'll be thanking me when you do."

She smiled warmly, returning to her normal state of well being.

"Yeah, I guess so. Thanks, Jess."

Jessie picked up the crates of explosives and headed out of the kitchen before stopping.

"I don't see what's so embarrassing about that though. Lot's of people have relationship issues."

Tifa rubbed her eyes and exhaled loudly.

"Uh, that's wasn't the embarrassing part."

"So what was then?"

She placed the mug in the kitchen sink and patted Jessie's shoulder.

"If I make it over the first few hurdles and I still find that this guy is not what he seems then I'll tell you."

"Promise? I'm itching to hear some dirt on this guy. He seems too good to be true."

"Yeah, I promise."


	5. Alone

**5**

**_Thursday, October 7th, 9:03am – Mount Pleasant Elementary School, Sector Seven_**

He had skipped breakfast and not for the first time. His stomach always did take an hour or so to wake up after his brain and it left little time for him to consume anything before being forced to leave the house. Well, _house_ was the furthest correct description of his dwelling. He actually lived in the Shinra building. The accommodation provided there was hardly glamorous but he had managed to cut his commute down by one-hundred percent.

He always was a man of efficiency and practicality.

For most, the _Shinra Accommodative Cells_, as they were more affectionately named, were simply places to sleep after a hard night on the town. They proved to be invaluable to those choosing to drink in bars owned by men that cared about their patrons' well being by taking their car keys off them for the night, to those choosing to drink in bars owned by men that took advantage of their patrons by taking their car keys and selling their cars the next day or simply to those too drunk to remember where they had parked their cars.

The city's policy on drink driving was that of zero tolerance. Anyone with even the slightest elevation of their blood alcohol level would be fined heavily or, for those unable to pay, locked up for an abnormally large period of time.

It was just the president's way of _earning_ a few extra Gil to increase the budget of his lucrative schemes. If taxes weren't enough, the penalties for crime infringement alone would see Shinra's bloodline catered for well into the distant future. Of course, the number of deaths on the road had drastically reduced, brawls and fist-fights were a thing of the past and teenage vandalism sank deep into the tar pits of extinction. But who would want to live in a city that punished litterers with a heavier fist than the murderers?

Everyone apparently.

He shifted down to second gear and glanced at his reflection in the rear view mirror.

_What's a missed meal between friends?_

His stomach no longer desired to act the friend and simply produced its instinctual noise to inform its owner that it needed filling once in a while.

_Now I'm talking to myself. I'll be crazier than Reno soon._

Reno was not currently present in the car, although he probably would have reiterated that talking to one's stomach was not the equivalent of talking to oneself.

_Yeah, he'd probably be right, too._

Parking his car in his usual spot, he began the five minute walk through the shaded alleyway to the school, meeting cold stares from parents that also preferred to take the shortcut. They always seemed to clutch their respective child's hands tighter, pulled their partners closer and removed all babies from their prams.

_Do I really look that_ _sinister_?

He knew the problem wasn't skin deep; an oddly insightful observation that kept him from punching the walls in anger. But who was he to blame them? The stoic expression, the cold exterior and the closed off walk – hands in pockets, eyes forward – would be enough keep anyone on their toes.

Of course, it wasn't all bad. At least nobody sat next to him on the train.

Tiny footsteps echoed off the walls surrounding the alleyway, soon accompanied by the faint sound of laughter and high-pitched noise. It was not a bad sound, the word _cacophony_ perhaps a gross over-exaggeration, but it was still unpleasant.

He knew how vulgar it sounded but he had always hated children.

Never in a million years would he have ever dreamed of creating such a creature.

Ignoring the stares of the other parents, he stopped by the outer perimeter of the school yard. Sidestepping the gateway, he stood alone, slowly grasping onto the metal grid-wire fencing that separated him from the playground. The rusted metal chaffed his palms, the sensations of pain inhibited by another neural network, metaphorically located in his heart.

Seven two-hundred watt bulbs surrounded the circular yard, highlighting every single square millimetre from the hand-drawn chalk hopscotch grids to the swing sets. When it came to the safety of their children, the normal sodium street lamps, as efficient as they were, simply did not function to protect. The children of the Slums did not understand the dangers of their own homes and the parents could not really be blamed for their tendency to overprotect, especially with people like Rude lurking around.

They all ran in groups of three or four, some choosing to play tag and others simply occupying their time with innocuous banter. The only common factor was the yellow reflective night-jackets every student was forced to wear. They were supplied by the schools and paid for with hard earned tax Gil. Then again, their expense was the least of the citizens' problems.

He slowly removed his shades, spotting a young boy sitting alone on the stone steps of the main entrance.

He had no idea one person could have such a profound effect on his mental stability, no idea he would know of somebody to love unconditionally, no idea what _love_ truly was until now.

"Wow, I'm sure you'll do great on the spelling test_-"_

He hadn't heard her behind him.

The humid air irritated his skin, coating him in discomfort. The water molecules diffused through the atmosphere below the plate, around every single object and person, regardless of their gender, race or prosperity, the one thing Rude could not hide from on the train.

"I can't pick you up from school today but Uncle Biggs is gonna come instead-"

He still had not heard her.

With a sigh he moved back and picked up his ringing telephone, not particularly in the mood to converse with the man on the other side.

"What do you want?"

"_Tseng wants our mission report in by five pm._"

"So?"

"_What do you mean 'so'? It's bad enough that the whole of Section G knows about my little problem, no thanks to you and your fucking spy cameras. I mean, what kind of perverted bastard watches his best friend have sex?"_

_"_You didn't have sex, remember?"

_"I-I... that's not the point! Alright, what kind of 'friend' runs his mouth off to thirty hit-men about something like this?"_

"Something like what? Your impotence?"

_"Hey, shut up. How did you even get the time to wire up her entire apartment anyway?"_

"I didn't wire her entire apartment, I only had to time to fit a camera in the bedroom."

"_That's a likely story, you little horny bastard. I'm sure you couldn't give a tiny rat's ass that I'm knee deep in humiliation just so that you can get a little CCTV footage to jerk off to."_

"Does this rant have a point, Reno?"

_"Yes, it has a point... I-I can't have Tseng finding out about this, OK?"_

"You're worried about how Tseng views your sexual performance?" he replied, implying a little sarcasm and a lot of confusion.

"_You know he only picks me to go on these seduction missions because of my legendary status. I don't wanna start doing bullshit assassination jobs, man._"

He leaned back against a nearby wall and continued to gaze at the boy through the fence wire.

"Yeah, it'd be a real shame if Tseng started making you do real work."

"_Real funny, remind me to book you a stand-up act in the Comedy Cellar. Listen, just promise me you won't tell Tseng about this. I've got an idea we can use for our report. As long as what we say is congruent we should stay out of trouble."_

"Whatever. Is that all you wanted?"

"_Uh, yeah. Hey, wait. I didn't see you leave HQ this morning. Where the hell are you?"_

He crept further back into the shadows, saving himself the awkward situation of being spotted by the child.

Lurking around the shadows would not exactly improve his reputation with the regulars. It would only be a matter of time before one of their heightened levels of suspicion would force him to leave.

Still, he remained put.

"The Slums."

_"What?"_

"I'm at Jake's school."

"_Oh, I get it. How is the little guy? I haven't seen him in months._"

"That makes two of us."

He perched his shades back over his eyes and wondered whether it was worth it. Forcing small talk not only made himself feel uncomfortable but often forced Reno into a state of silent submission. Getting his partner lost for words was often the best way to shut him up but it was often too mentally fatiguing to think of idle things to say in the spur of the moment.

Today he did have something to say and a reason to say it beyond silencing the loud mouth of his partner.

_What the hell. Just go for it._

"It's his birthday today. It's his birthday and he's sat all alone on the steps of the school."

He could hear the static through the phone on the other side of the plate, almost forcing a smile. His partner's predictability was in no way astounding. What was astounding was the simple fact that, although Reno could chatter until the cows came home, he could not speak when spoken to. It was a rather strange condition that Rude deemed worthy of a visit to Dr. Kauffman, the resident shrink.

Reno, so far, had been the only agent to never visit the man and, until four weeks ago, did not even know he existed. It just proved how little he cared about things.

_Maybe that isn't such a bad thing_.

For one day, Rude wished he could experience that sensation, or lack thereof, that Reno owned. It was a topic he had actually explored with Dr. Kauffman. However, the session had been unusually brief after Kauffman suggested Rude was simply jealous of his partner, forcing him to storm out.

He hadn't been to the doctor since.

"_Oh, that's-_"

"It's OK, Reno. I don't expect you to say anything-"

"_Have you had a chance to talk to Monica about joint custody again?_"

He was hardly the epitome of _chatty_ himself but that took him by surprise.

"No. She won't let me come anywhere near them both. She's changed her number twice and every time I track her down she threatens to take Jake to the other side of the world."

"_And you're gonna let her get away with that? Listen, I've met your ex and she's a bitch. I didn't wanna say anything before but now she's taking it too far-"_

"There's no point, Reno. At least this way I still get to see my son."

_My God, this is going to be awkward._

_Just say it!_

"You know, I bought him a toy pistol for his birthday. Can you believe that? It's in the trunk of my car right now. I thought a gift would help me get closer but, and here's the kicker, I can't look at it without wanting to run a hundred miles away from him.

"I'm thinking as soon as I'm finished up with this current mission I'm gonna take my week off early and spend as much time as I can with Jake. I don't even care what she does; I just need some time to build up enough courage to talk to him again."

"_Go for it! She can't touch you. Don't you have transactional immunity in Midgar?"_

"Yes. But do you think Heidegger's going to go out of his way to make sure I get my son back? You know what his opinion of a Turk with a family is."

"_Yeah, a killer with emotional baggage._"

"Look, it doesn't even matter because I-"

"Make sure you don't forget to bring your coat back from school, Marlene. Don't leave it in the cloakroom like you did yesterday-"

This time he heard her.

He lurched forward from the shadows and stared at the main gates. The first images to strike his eyes were those of the two red ribbons in her long hair. She clutched the hand of a small girl and entered the yard, nodding in acknowledgment at the other parents and a few of her regulars.

"It's her!" he whispered through the phone.

"_Monica?_"

"Lockhart. She's dropping off a child at the school; young female, brown hair, about Jake's height. Possibly her daughter."

"_It can't be. She doesn't have any kids."_

"How do you know?"

"_Believe me. I had to study her boring-ass file extensively for the past two weeks. She has no kids. Her mother and father are both dead. No siblings. No cousins or aunts or uncles. She's pretty much all alone._"

"That sucks. There's nothing worse than being all alone in the world. I'm sure I'd be doing her favour-"

"_Wait, you're not seriously thinking about killing her are you? I can never tell when you're joking._"

He leaned in closer, clutching the fence once more as he peered through. The malicious nature of his conversation was indeed as serious as he always had been. He didn't have time to joke around.

"One bullet and she's gone. Maybe if we can get her out of the picture today we'll end this damn case, we'll be able to do all the paperwork by Friday and I'll get to see my son."

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. No small talk this time. This was large. This was business. But Reno still had been silenced into a submissive state of thinking.

"_A couple of days ago, I would have worried about the detrimental effects to the company. Now that my libido's on the line, the company can screw itself. But be careful. Whatever you do, make it look like an accident._"

"Would I have it any other way?"

He snapped his phone shut and waited for the late arrivals to enter the school yard before wandering over to his car. Slowly unlatching the trunk, he moved the boxes of lenses and bullets around, finally finding his pistol under a sweater. Before closing it again one of the objects within caught his eye; an unwrapped birthday present to his son. He picked up the toy and gave it a thorough inspection. It silently judged him and pleaded with him to reconsider for the sake of his son.

He shook his head and angrily slammed the trunk shut.

_Hearing voices from toys now? Get a grip!_

After screwing a silencer onto the gun he hid it under his jacket, obviously not intending to shoot her in the middle of a school playground. The surge of reassurance rushed through him.

He always knew he would get his way with a gun under his jacket. Anything was possible.

The sounds soon swilled through him, bouncing off the walls of his brain; a violin and set of guitar strings being tapped in concordance. It was music that always struck his mind's ear before he stalked his prey. It was no particular piece of music he had ever heard before or would listen to if played on the radio but it was his and he loved it. It accompanied a subtle sense of euphoria that was always difficult to describe in words.

He didn't need to describe it right now but he would have loved to explain it. He was no psycho. There were no feelings of pleasure arising after he murdered. It was simply a feeling of satisfaction.

He was doing his job.

Of course, he tended not to think about his victims, it only hindered his progress. Death would knock on everyone's door eventually and physical pain was just an obstacle that had to be overtaken. If he could do it then so could everyone else.

Yes, distance was vital. Once you get too involved you can never get out; a rather uncommon and archaic principle all killers shared. But learning the true meaning of the principle only became clear when it happened in real life. And it had happened to him six years ago.

Her name was Monica Gauthier.

Prowling within the shadows once more, he stared in disbelief through the wire fencing at his _victim_.

_What was her name? _

_Lockhart. _

_Tifa._

A warm smile emanated from her lips, warm enough to permeate the humidity of the air and find his skin. Still clutching onto the little girl's hand, she moved towards the stone steps of the school and routed through her backpack, eventually finding a small plastic box that she gave to Jake.

It was a remote controlled car, a simple gesture of affection with an inanimate object that found that beautiful, underused smile.

Jake jumped off the steps and hugged Tifa. He ripped open the casing as she watched with what could only be described as a proud smile.

Tifa kissed Marlene's forehead and waved the two children goodbye. She meandered through the crowd of people still clinging onto their kids as though it was their final goodbye.

She was long gone before he realised he had to follow her.

_I wonder what he would have done if I had given him that present?_

A laugh of self-pity drifted past his lips. He was comparing this father-son relationship to that of his son and a stranger.

A stranger he was going to murder.

_Happy Birthday, Jake._

**_Friday, October 8th, 2:32am – Tifa's Seventh Heaven, Sector Seven_**

There were three of them this time, all looking as though they had been burnt down to the limit as they sat in their glass tombs otherwise known as the bar ashtray.

Big Earl was usually the main culprit. He smoked like a chimney and would often leave his tar filled mementos at the end of the night for Tifa to clean away. It was not accidental. In actual fact, even though Tifa's rather loud objections about smoking in her bar terrified him, he always knew that she secretly loved the smell of them. She would never dream of smoking herself but found some heightened form of nostalgia in the scent. It was a guilty pleasure, like enjoying the smell of gasoline even though it contained carcinogens like Benzene.

Most knew it reminded her of her father. She remembered the way he would sit on the front porch in his rocking chair that squeaked every time pressure was applied to its back surface. He would clutch his newspaper and simply watch the clouds float by over the mountains with his pipe firmly placed between his lips. After she had done all of her homework and chores, she would sit by his feet and listen to his stories until the sun began to descend beyond the peaks of Mount Nibel.

She wiped down the last glass and eventually stubbed out the dying embers of the cigarettes, alone for the past twenty minutes after calling time. Barret, Biggs, Wedge and Jessie had not arrived today. She knew they were still conspiring to blow up the reactors but wished to do so in a controlled environment away from her prying ears.

_Of course, when they want free food and beer they'll come straight to my_-

_Stop it now. No need to get bitter._

She had let Sheila go an hour ago, too. The poor girl looked as though she could use a good night's sleep. God knows what was keeping her up at night.

Yes, it had just been her and her hardcore patrons. _The Fabulous Four_. That was what she called them.

Every night they would stay by her side in to the wee hours of the morning getting plastered on her fiery Corel Whiskey and blurting out their drunken secrets to her in a somewhat unorthodox confessional. She had no anonymous booths for them to sit in but they did not need such trivial items to absolve their sins; just a glass, some ice and plenty of alcohol.

Big Earl was the most senior, spanning eight and a half decades on Midgarian soil, way before the Plate's construction. He could remember times when the grass grew outside his front lawn and swayed with the cool spring breezes, the patches of Shamrock and the daffodils that lined the fences of his yard always tended to with great love and care. His wife owned her own plot of land a few hundred yards into the farmland and grew carrots and potatoes for her homemade stews.

Life seemed to flourish everywhere he looked but now all he could do was sit by the bar drinking the memories away. They were beautiful memories, of course. Memories of his wife's angelic face, memories of his young son, memories of the life that he had taken for granted. Now they seemed to be laced with cyanide and an acrid taste that could only be washed away using Tifa's special concoctions.

Spot was only a decade younger, followed by the two forty-something year old mechanics from across the street that tried not to let their midlife crises burn too large a hole in their already slim wallets.

They were her friends and to a lesser extent her family, not through blood, of course, but they seemed to be the only ones that had pulled through for her. They were the only ones that would cheer her up when she felt blue and the only ones she could really trust.

She did not really have to close her eyes to imagine what her bar could be just merely to survive one more night in essence but she would never tell them that.

She had let them go for the night, too, thirty minutes earlier than the usual closing time. They did not protest their objections as they usually would for this time they knew she was in no mood to cater for them. They could see the tired expressions and the less than jovial personality she chose to express.

They knew her, end of story. That's what families do though, right?

She found her chequered tablecloth under the bar and wiped away the last remaining streaks of liquid, mentally noting to varnish over the woodwork now showing young signs of rotting away.

She huffed as she shook the cloth clean and placed it back under the bar.

_Yes. Alone. _

_Again._

She had not gotten a call from Reno that night, not that she was expecting one. He hadn't arranged a date for them tonight and had not implied that he was in the mood to flirt with her either. He was giving her a little space and, in all honesty, that was the exact quality she liked in men. She did not enjoy being suffocated by her partners but this seemed so much different. At this moment in time she could not feel more deflated; an outsider being shunned away from her own friends and deflecting attention away from the few she had left.

He wasn't perfect but she couldn't push this one away like she did with everybody else. If it meant leaving this life of solitude behind then anything was worth it.

She wanted to call him to hear his voice again. But what would she say? After all, _she_ had been the one that had told him to call her when he felt ready. She knew she could not rush him. He needed his space, too. Who was she to deny him of that?

_Alone._

The word kept percolating through her mind.

If only she knew what was behind her. If only she knew that through the lace curtains a gun was slowly poking its way through to the surface, aimed in her direction, not for the sheer fact that she was about to die, just to let her know she was not as alone as she thought.

Rude hid behind the large jukebox by the window, concealing his face behind the curtains and his eyes behind his shades. There was hardly any light permeating through the building but his eyes had adapted to situations like these years ago. He could make use of his other senses, almost heightened to supernormal levels. Reno always said compromising his eyesight would have no effect on him whatsoever but would give him a valid reason to actually wear those damn shades twenty-four/seven.

He slowly cocked the gun as she switched on the tap to wash her hands clean. Keeping his hand steady he aimed for her head, between her eyes. Her large brown eyes-

_Stop it! Got to concentrate!_

A few beads of sweat dripped off his scalp, dribbling over the rims of his shades. He would convince himself that it was simply the heat and nothing else. If that was true then how could he explain the shivering?

This would be a true test of his character. He hated guns. He hadn't fired one in years.

Gulping hard, he got down on his knees for a more stable shot. Once on the ground he began to shimmy on his stomach to a table, the cloth of which had been sandwiched between the counter-tops and the seats of the upside down stools. He crawled under the table and kept the gun fixed at her forehead.

Trying not to inhale the dust on the floorboards, he peeked out from under the cover of the table, accidentally dropping his gun on the floor as he fumbled with the tie covering his nose. The thud was enough to jolt Tifa's nerves as she quickly switched off the tap and inspected the empty bar.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

She moved from behind the bar and looked out of the window, yanking the curtains to see a cab driver dropping off two drunken ladies at the apartment complex down the street.

She mumbled to herself, "Now I'm starting to hear things. Get a grip, woman."

Rude stared at her legs as they walked past the table, the heels of her shoes clicking against the floorboards, reverberating through his chest. His plan was simple: shoot her, place her in a stolen car, roll the car into a derelict region of Sector Three and crash it into a lamppost. Then after knocking out all of her teeth and setting the car ablaze he would be left fleeing the crime scene without a trace and with no clue of the victim's identity.

It was textbook Turk murder.

Looking at the gun under the table, he knew he would need another plan. He just needed to get her unconscious.

She left the bar to enter the back room.

She had the bought the place a few years ago with all the money in her back pocket saved as scrupulously as possible. When it was on the market it was nothing more than a dusty set of bare rooms. With a lot of effort and time under her belt she had converted the front room into an area somewhat worthy of being deemed a public gathering place. The other rooms were also set to be redesigned to act as her home but she had been forced to spend the rest of her money on the basement: the computer, the television, the decorating and the incredibly expensive, hydraulically operated arcade machine. So, to this day, the other rooms remained as bare and ugly as she had always left them.

She would simply keep her bag and coat in the back room. It was far too dusty to keep the wine back there and had no safe electricity terminal to plug in a refrigerator of any kind. It was in essence, completely and utterly useless.

As she stepped out of the bar Rude took his opportunity to get up and dust his trousers clean. He slinked over behind the bar and picked up the nearest bottle he could find. Red wine.

Unplugging the cork, he took a sip to calm his nerves, pleasantly surprised by its fruity flavour. Creeping back into the shadows, he lifted the bottle up, ready to strike it against her skull as she re-entered the room.

The nerves had gotten to him, although he would never admit it. She slipped right past him and he froze.

_If I can't do it now I'll never be able to._

There had to be a far more sound reason than a simple difficulty with killing women. He would usually tell himself that it was just a latent form of sexism. Who was to say women could not withstand a beating like men could? Who was to say it was wrong?

He did, that was who.

He knew this was different and it only occurred to him when she stopped by the door and turned behind to the back room, whispering about forgetting her keys.

_That smile. _

_I've never seen Jake smile like that before. She found that childlike innocence I thought I had inadvertently killed years ago within him. _

_I-I… I need some time to think._

He put the bottle down and kept still in the shadows as Tifa re-emerged with her keys jingling in her hand. She looked back at the bar once more to check everything was in order before nodding and stepping outside.

He took another sip of the wine and sat by the bar, clutching his head in his hands, only stopping to look up at the sounds of a padlock latching shut.

Her footsteps were still audible through the wall as he rushed over to the window and witnessed her disappearing around the corner. When sure she was out of sight, he forcefully pulled against the doors to no real avail.

_Great. Locked in._

**_Friday, October 8th, 6:30am – Tifa's Seventh Heaven, Sector Seven_**

"You've got a hefty set of stones to wake me up this early, man."

"Just open the door," Rude called back from his side.

He could hear the small metallic objects prying their way through the old keyhole and, using that supernormal hearing he had acquired, could recognise where Reno was going wrong. Hearing the tip of the object scraping against the upper shaft of the keyhole he did not say anything to his colleague at the risk of sounding like a nerd.

For some reason he always cared how Reno perceived him and wanted to maintain his stoic and untouchable manner of coolness that only he could pull off well. It was nothing to do with peer pressure. He just liked the shred of respect he was given by his somewhat juvenile partner.

"I'm trying, alright?" Reno called, booting the door in anger after five minutes of struggling had gotten him nowhere. "So, I'm guessing you didn't manage to kill Little Miss Brown Eyes."

"Your observational skills are astounding. You should consider being a secret agent or something," he replied, leaning back against the door.

"Would you quit with the sarcasm? It really doesn't suit you."

"I really don't know what happened to me. I just froze."

"I guess you know how I feel."

"What?"

"My poor performance in the bedroom. I'm telling you, she has some sort of voodoo curse or something. She's the one that's having this effect on us. We're the two most venerated agents in the entire company and this one little bitch can reduce us to nothing."

He could feel Reno's boot vibrating the door again as he kicked it, sending pulses of energy through his back, still believing it was not the right time to tell him how to use the equipment he had been taught to use on their first day of training.

"You know for the first time I think I agree with you. I think we should be reassigned. I guess that's what happens when you start to like your victims-"

The object in the door let out a large scratching noise as Reno slipped it through incorrectly with a rather potent force.

"Whoa, whoa, hold the phone! You _actually_ like this chick?"

He slapped his forehead and finally conceded. He looked like a fool anyway, what was the harm now?

"You're using the pick wrong. You should rotate it clockwise and then insert it into the keyhole."

"Fuck the pick, you like this woman? Listen, I'll agree that she has nice tits and all but I swear a conversation with her is like buying yourself a one-way ticket to Boringsville. Talk about needy, too. You know you can't be in a relationship with a woman that wants to screw you after she's known you for less than a few days."

"Maybe she's willing to give it all up for you because you've been acting like you actually give a shit about her. She's probably never known a man that's been feeding her the same rehearsed lines you have."

He moved forward as the door opened with a long and deliberate squeak.

Reno stood on the other side, hands on hips and a smile on his face.

"Hey, I resent that. It's not my fault she's desperate."

"It's not her fault she's lonely," he replied, picking up his coat and pushing Reno aside to advance ahead.

"You don't honestly believe that do you? Think about it. There's gotta be a reason she hasn't got a boyfriend."

"I'm not having this conversation with you, Reno," he said, stepping into his car and quickly driving off into the empty streets.

"That's all the thanks I get!" Reno yelled, now talking to the dust cloud the rear wheels sprayed in his direction.

Coughing the dust fragments out of his already weakened lungs, he began to chuckle to himself and wandered over to his car. Today was going to be a good day. He always used Rude as a calibrator for his mood and when the bald-headed assassin made him chuckle things could only go in a positive direction.

He chose not to think twice about what Rude had said about Tifa. For one, relationship talk between two heterosexual guys was just wrong and secondly, Rude was simply crushing on the girl with the pretty exterior as he always did. Of course, physical attraction was important. The opposite sex needs to choose a mate with good genetic structure. But finding an attractive girl with an attractive personality was the new evolutionary step.

_That was the problem with the human race_ _nowadays_. _Ugly people with great personalities only mate with one another as do attractive people with all the personality of a garden hedge. The mixture of this DNA is not occurring to produce what would inevitably be a great race._

Of course, it was just his hypothesis and he would not want to take it to the extremes of Nazism, but it still made sense to him. Then again, he wouldn't be one to practice his own philosophy_. _

_Sleep with an ugly person? Yuck! You gotta be kidding me!_

With a sigh, he stepped in his car and adjusted the rear-view. Knowing that his date was still alive and kicking he knew he would have to go back to work. He would have to gain her trust and her affection again. But it wouldn't be too difficult. After all, he had managed to seduce her into bed after two dates. He was sure he could do it again.

After checking his blind spot he began to drive off.

_Well, at least she ain't ugly._


	6. Stars

**6**

**_Saturday, October 9th, 10:20am – Rolling Scones Café, Upper Plate_**

If it was possible to _politely_ ask someone to fuck off then he had done it on more than one occasion. He could never gauge the appropriate syllables to highlight with a modified accent or the level of bitterness that would signify the fact that he wanted to be left alone but that he also wasn't a jerk.

Whatever his system, it was not worth noting or copying because he was persistently pestered by irritating people and most of the agents that had taken time out of work to download and print the _Is Reno a Jerk?_ questionnaire did indeed tick the yes box.

He hadn't modified his behaviour in response to the final tally stuck to the bulletin board though, blaming everybody else for not trying hard enough to tolerate his presence.

Yes, he would die a very happy man living in denial.

The doorman pulled back the hand grasping onto a leaflet for a charity appeal from Reno's path after receiving his polite _fuck off_ and solemnly opened the glass door to the café. His job description required him to tip his hat and smile at the incoming customers but the demeaning task of opening the door for this jerk was humiliating enough.

_Rolling Scones_ was owned by a man from Junon apparently known as Darnell to those that had the mental courage to remain in his company for more than five minutes. He had become a successful entrepreneur, owning several cafes, restaurants and bars across the entire plate. Of course, one would imagine that his stupidity would be a hindrance to success but his avarice always managed to get him places.

For example, his latest method of earning a little extra pocket money involved making an acquaintance with a local brute that paid him hefty tips to use his establishment's balcony as a conference area. He hated the local brute, fully aware that the feeling was mutual, but loved the smell of brand new bills hot from the Midgar Mint in his hands.

Waiting as patiently as he could by the counter, Darnell dunked the last piece of doughnut in his coffee, coughing and spluttering as an all too familiar palm struck his back with unnecessary force.

The brute had arrived.

Darnell wiped his hands down and stood up, a smile spreading across his lips. He could smell the cash already.

"Hello, sir. I hope you're having a great morning."

"Just fine. My boys here?"

"They sure are, sir. Hey," he said, eyeing the brute up and down as he playfully punched his shoulder. "Hey," he continued, "have you been hitting the gym again?"

"No, Darnell. Just show me to my seat."

Darnell hurriedly snapped his fingers for a waitress to follow the two of them to a secluded portion of the café, cordoned off by a few 'C_aution! Wet Floor!_' signs and then finally by a door with the words _'Staff Only!_' scribed upon in bold print.

They meandered through the tables, fending off the steam and the heady smell of coffee and fried bacon from the kitchen. The chefs at work had no formal barrier between themselves and the customers other than the glass counter. It allowed the customers to watch their food being prepared and allowed the chefs to observe the local brute waltzing through with their brown-nosed boss.

"You know, most people think I named this place after the rock band," Darnell uttered. "But in all honesty I can't stand Mick Jagger. It's sickening how so many of our citizens follow popular music over sage proverbs."

He stopped as he found a set of gold keys from his pocket and fumbled with the lock.

"Uh, your friends are waiting on the other side, sir. They insisted I locked the door to keep them out of sight."

He began to shiver as he tried all of the keys to no avail, and then tried to remember which key he had already used before. After an excruciating four minutes, the door unlocked and opened with a slight squeak, allowing Reno to meet the fresh breeze he had just escaped a moment ago.

The balcony overlooked the edge of the plate. All in all he could describe it as _nice_ and possibly _peaceful_, though he never really enjoyed it that way. The hilltops and marshland completely invaded the peripheral aspect of the world below them, often showing freckles that appeared to be cars and wrinkles that appeared to be the roads the freckles travelled upon. The salt water lakes seemed adamant in their decision to scatter around the grasslands, isolated from the tributaries that drained into the ocean on the opposite side and the chalky surfaces of the Mythril Mines that stretched far and wide, hiding Junon from view.

A small table hidden under a large parasol carried a half empty coffeepot nestled between buttered croissants, cakes and toast. A bowl of fresh fruit sat at the edge, satiating the hunger of an all too recognisable figure.

He patted the shoulder of his bald headed partner and the two balcony diners faced the doorway.

"Reno. You're late."

"I'll leave you guys to it then. Do you want Mandy here to get you anything else?" Darnell asked, pointing to the sullen waitress behind him.

Reno shook his head and placed three thousand Gil in Darnell's breast pocket. Slapping him gently on the cheek, he sat down by his colleagues and waved the man away.

"No, we can take it from here."

Tseng waited until the door had closed and been relocked before he sighed and took another sip of coffee.

"I thought we said nine thirty?"

"Come on, boss, when have I ever been on time?"

"I suppose," he replied, removing a large envelope from his briefcase. He placed it on the table and allowed his subordinates to take a glance. "I've sent an undercover agent to take a few photos of our subject. We should be able to get a few topics of interest for you and Lockhart to share."

"OK, I'll admit I haven't been doing the best job with this woman," Reno sighed, flipping through the photos before throwing them carelessly back on the table. "But I just need one more date to clench it. One more date and she'll be at my mercy. Then I'll start pumping her for information."

"Hmm."

That was not a positive sign. When Tseng resorted to basic noises over verbose retorts everyone knew something was not right.

"You're lucky I'm in a good mood. Heidegger's idiotic stunt almost cost us the mission." He crossed his legs and took a deep look through Reno's eyes. "You look tired."

"Don't worry about me, sir. Just enjoy your breakfast, it's on me."

"You know, after two and a half years, I still don't know why you insist we come to this place. We can take care of our mission debriefing seminars in the Shinra building. I still don't feel safe here."

Reno grabbed a piece of cold toast and began to munch on it thoroughly. With his mouth still full, he replied, "Yeah, but I just love getting waited on hand and foot. You don't get this kind of service back at HQ."

"Quite. So, how far do you feel you're getting with your mission?"

Reno coughed slightly and threw the half-eaten piece of toast back on the plate.

"Um, yeah, it's going OK. I mean--"

Tseng loosened his tie and smiled at the sight of the rolling clouds over the peaks of the Mythril mountain range.

"I don't know why but I'm getting the feeling I may have to reassign you."

Reno spilt a few drops of coffee as he quickly poured some into a nearby ceramic cup, looking back at his partner.

"_He_ hasn't been saying anything has he?"

Rude snorted and shook his head in annoyance.

"No, Reno. Rude hasn't said anything, but I don't think he needs to. This is taking far longer than I anticipated and is not only draining effort but its also wasting money; money this unit can't afford to blow."

"Look, boss. Taking me off the case when I'm _this _close would really be an egregious error."

"_Egregious_?" Rude asked, folding his arms and slouching back against the deck chair.

"Yeah that's right. I'm more articulate than you think, you ass," he chuckled, turning back to Tseng. "Why don't we just stick with the plan for at least one more week? I'll squeeze the info out of her and--"

"How about I try and get the information out of her?" Rude interrupted, leaning forward to pick a grape from the bowl before him.

Reno stared at his partner, the smile now wiped cleanly off his face. It was moments like this he hated the competitive attitude he had given Rude.

Rubbing the corners of his eyes, Reno tried to make sense of things for his upcoming argument.

"Uh, no. No, that's a terrible idea. You'll take longer than I have to get anywhere with her. At least I have a foothold here."

Tseng nodded in agreement. As much as he liked Rude, he knew his idea was blemished and could only come from a growing emotional attachment. His experience in the field had led him to this conclusion many times with many agents but only few could learn from their mistakes. Only few could remain in his tutelage for so long before he would have to discard them.

Rude had made his mistake and now it was time for him to learn from it.

"No. Reno's right. We can't risk losing any more time," he said, taking another sip of coffee before standing up and rearranging his suit. "I'll give you an extra week. You better show me some results or I'll pull the plug on this operation and resort to Plan B."

The two agents nodded.

"You've got another date with her tonight, right?" Tseng said, waiting for Reno to nod. "And when are _you_ going to plan your break in?"

"Tomorrow night's her next late shift. She closes at around two, sometimes two thirty. I'll be ready and waiting," Rude replied, trying not to let his disappointment tighten his throat.

"OK, but be careful. You know the plan. She catches you, you let her know your Shinra and you escape. Don't let her get a hold of you. We don't know what her and her team or capable of so a loss of information to the enemy would be devastating to our advantage. With Rude as our distraction, Reno will be left in the clear to grow an even stronger bond with her to speed up this gruelling process."

Reno scratched his head and raised his hand to join the conversation.

Tseng looked back at him and sighed, "This isn't grade school, Reno, just talk."

"Oh," he said, slowly lowering his hand. "Well, I'm getting the impression that this may not be a good idea after all. If we let her know Shinra is on to her I'll probably lose my cover anyway. I think it's best if we just keep Rude out of the picture."

Tseng chose not to look at his bald subordinate as he deeply inhaled the cool morning air.

"Well, he can be an idiot but he does give honest critique of his own ideas. I think he's right, Rude. As of now, you should be permanently off the case. Do not attempt to make any contact with the subject or risk suspension. Do you understand me, agent? This is a very important mission."

Rude cracked his knuckles as he glared at Reno. His eyes, hidden behind the shades, began to tremor in anger. There was nothing more humiliating than being kicked out of a mission; a mission he could complete ten times faster than the man already on the job.

But, he bit his tongue, looked back over the scenery and nodded.

Tseng picked up his briefcase, removed two sheaves of paper and threw them on the table.

"OK, that's that. We can talk about the _egregious _differences in your mission reports once we clear this whole thing up." he said, patting Reno's shoulder as he walked to the door. "Don't worry, Reno. It happens to the best of us."

With that final comment he left.

Reno shook his head, glaring at his partner.

"You son of a--"

"I don't lie on mission reports, Reno."

"It was one thing I asked of you, just one simple thing!"

"Why do you care, anyway?" he replied, folding up a napkin after wiping his mouth. "You've expelled me from this mission so you can take all the glory as always."

The redhead jumped up, knocking his chair back as he did so.

"You think I'm doing this for glory!? I'm just doing my job, numb-nuts. Any moron can see that we'll do nothing but raise her suspicion further if we start sending in more and more agents to harass her."

"Whatever, Reno," he said, leaning over the railings of the balcony, soon feeling his partner's hand jabbing his shoulder.

"I'm doing this to save you, alright?"

The serious tone of his voice almost sent shivers through Rude's spine. For a moment, even though he chose to do so in his usual immature way, he knew that Reno was speaking with all the sagacity he had lost somewhere along the line. The roles had switched. He was losing his mind.

But he still had to ask.

"Saving me from what?"

Reno calmed down and leaned over the balcony, cupping his hands together as he did so.

"From yourself. You're just feeling a little down right now, and I can understand that. I just don't want you to get too close to this chick. I don't want her to hurt you the way you've been hurt before," he said, patting his partner's back, chuckling warmly. "Come on, listen to us. We sound like a couple o' queers."

Rude smirked and rubbed his forehead. He turned back and nodded. With a glance at his partner, he brushed past him over to the doorway.

_Maybe this time I need to save myself._

**_Saturday, October 9th, 5:57pm – VUE Movie Theatre, Upper Plate_**

There were two of them: yellow, slightly crumpled and unlined. A few paragraphs of Times New Roman garbage lay idly upon both papers, glaring at him like angry children.

He scrunched up the scripts and threw them in the nearby dustbin, making sure to snort in disdain as he did so.

It was true that he would never live it down if word spread regarding his request for the scripts in the first place and, even though his self esteem was at an all time low already, he planned to keep it a secret. Back then he didn't know who she was, how she would respond to his pick up lines or what would motivate him to continue flirting with her.

Now he had gotten to know a little more about her, allowing him to tailor his sense of humour with knowledge of what she would probably find offensive and what she would relate to. Unfortunately knowing enough about her to work her in his own magic way was not enough to comfort Tseng, forcing him to swallow the regurgitated phrases of the morons up in Section G.

He sat alone on the curb twiddling his thumbs and watching the cars go by. In the relatively sanitary conditions his mind could no longer be occupied so easily and so the boredom grew to intolerable levels once more.

Hearing footsteps - the same aberrant clicking of her high heel shoes, indicating one was shorter than other - he turned back to spot her. It wasn't simply his cunning, rather his attention to detail.

_Wait, something as menial and insignificant as that stuck in my brain? That ain't right._

He slapped his forehead as he stood up and dusted himself off.

Now was not the time to start asking silly questions.

She turned the corner of the building, emerging in a pretty red dress and a warm smile like a burning sunrise with killer legs. The smile grew to a slight giggle as she moved forward to hug him and peck his cheek.

He stalled at first, the hug taking him totally by surprise.

_Shit, she's eager. She's gonna start moving things too fast again. I gotta bail--_

_Ah, quit being such a pussy._

"Hey there, stranger," she remarked, twirling around for him. "What do you think? I got dressed up just for you."

He forced a smile and nodded awkwardly.

_She's moving too fast! She's moving too fast! _

_Run!_

"Uh, simply a-amazing. You look… really hot."

"Thanks, I was gonna go for something more original but in the end I settled for the classic red dress."

Reno nodded in response, the nod a man gives when he asks a woman why he should give a damn about what she's wearing, although he silently admitted that it did complement her body, pushing up her chest and tapering down to end above her knees, exposing a few seductive inches of her creamy thighs.

_She doesn't actually look half bad all dolled up. Makes a nice change from the plain-Jane I met at the Seventh Heaven._

He held her hand after much deliberation and smiled.

"You look great. And I just wanna tell you that I'm glad you decided to give me another shot."

It was her turn to nod in that awkward manner.

"No problemo."

"And also, I wanted to say sorry for making you catch the train up here alone because--"

She pressed her finger up to his lips in an effort to shut him up.

"Reno, my legs are freezing. Let's go inside."

He smirked, kissed her finger before she removed it and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

Entering the building, they pushed through the throngs of teenage boys hanging around the foyer waiting to catch the new action movie the critics hated because of the poor storyline and the degradation of the entire female cast.

He was desperate to see that movie, too, but, in an act of modern chivalry, allowed her to choose.

She looked up at the large plasma screens above the popcorn stand at the muted trailers and advertisements, the sound cut short, giving the average Indie music a chance of being heard; obviously one from the ticket jockey's personal CD collection.

The girl behind the ice-cream bar's eyes seemed sullen, covered in heavy black mascara and shades of purple shadow. Her lips, caked in deep purple lipstick, contrasted heavily with her pale skin.

She seemed angry. He tried to guess why. Was it the fact that it was just the normal Gothic thing to do or was she upset that, even though promised a million times by her employers, her CDs would never be played to the rabble of customers.

"How about that one?"

Reno followed her pointing finger to a large poster-board hanging from the ceiling. The board, cut to shape a screaming face, was perforated around the mouth, nose, ears and eyes of the head with fake maggots emerging from each orifice.

_Bloody Water 2: The Victim_.

"A horror movie?" he said, rather indifferently. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he found these films utterly dull, a mere shadow of the gore and torture he had seen throughout his career.

"Yeah, my friend Jessie says it's really scary. It's pretty tough to scare me so I hope she's right."

He nodded again.

_I guess __it's better than watching a chick flick._

"Sounds great," he said, bracing himself for another ninety minutes of utter boredom.

**_Saturday, October 9th, 8:14pm – Mercer Park, Upper Plate_**

Walking the relatively long distance to Mercer Park, Reno thought it would bode well for him to travel back to the spot where they had shared their first kiss. His arm, almost glued to her shoulder, began to loosen as he genuinely offered to carry her piggyback. They met a few odd stares but they were young people in a young relationship that deserved to act as unorthodoxly as they pleased.

He climbed over the knee high metal fencing after lifting Tifa over, a simple gesture that proved chivalry still existed. As they reached the edge of the plate she took off her high heels and allowed the cool asphalt to caress her bare feet. It was the first sign of comfort she had shown all day as she sighed and leaned over the fencing.

The night air played with her hair, pushing it this way and that over her face as she gazed over the edge and smiled at the tiny blinking lights of the towns and villages around the grasslands.

The moonlight licked the ocean's waves as they crashed against the dark rocks of the beach, the romantic sounds somewhat distorted by the engines of cars passing by on the road behind her.

"I can't believe the stars are out," she whispered.

"Yeah, and I can't believe this view is better than the one in Kalm."

"It's a wonder I've never seen the stars up here so clearly before. There's no pollution from light or smoke... it's just the stars. Our stars."

"You can see them more clearly tonight because I'm staying close to you, holding you to hide your beauty. You see, when you're on you're own, your beauty simply outshines the stars. That's why you'll never be able to see them alone."

She laughed silently and turned back to face him.

"Do you have a book with lines like that in it?"

"Hey, it's the truth, baby. I'm just telling it as I see it," he replied, kissing her shoulder. "You think I should stop?"

After a dubious moment of thought, she pursed her lips and said, "No. I think I like it. It may be an over-exaggeration but at least it makes me laugh."

"Well, when you put it that way I think I should stop anyway. I mean, the heavenly sound of your laugh surpasses the lilting choir of the birds on summer mornings and would drive them to feathered jealousy--"

She laughed louder this time and patted his chest. He was right in a way. It _was_ a nice sound.

"OK, mister. Now I really think you should stop."

"Fair enough," he chuckled, rubbing his hands against her arms, not in an effort to warm her skin, just to give her the satisfaction of being touched.

She reacted positively, letting out a gentle hum.

"Honestly though," he continued, "it's a shame the pollution covers up the stars. But I guess Shinra won't change just for a couple of lovebirds like us, huh?"

She chewed on his comment, her gaze locked on the drowning sun.

_Is it worth it?_

She had been yearning to get it off her chest, itching to tell him the whole truth.

_What's the use? I'm not one of the gang anymore in their eyes. _

_I better keep my mouth shut before I end up ruining this relationship. If AVALANCHE leaves me I don't want Reno to leave, too._

She turned back and smiled.

"Don't worry about it. My beauty won't let me see the stars anyway. I doubt switching off a few Mako Reactors will help."

He forced another smile; the smile a con man produces when he's losing grip of his mark.


	7. Lockhart

**7**

**_Monday, October 11th, 4:03pm – S7 Recreational Zone, Sector Seven_**

It was no longer a matter of caring. The people had seen him coming and going for weeks on end, always circling the same territory like a vulture circling a wounded animal. They kept themselves to themselves whenever he chose to stroll through the specific area, living in fear of his presence.

Time would not heal all wounds but, as it crept by, it seemed to induce a state of commensalism between the plate-dweller and the slum-dwellers. They would never go near him when he came down to their dark underworld, for they knew the meaning of the blue suit. But they did not try to remove him from their home, benefiting from his presence. Although his crisp suit and shades gave food for their perception in the form of calmness and serenity, the turbulence of his inner-self was far clearer to see.

The criminals and two-bit thugs chose never to operate their _businesses_ whenever he was around and the townspeople would always be safer for the few minutes he spent walking past their veiled windows.

His footsteps echoed through the empty darkness of the street, an uneasy yet unavoidable sound like the crackling of a record, as he contemplated the atypical feeling in the pit of his stomach. The familiarity of the street signs, the Mako-fuelled street lamps and the cracks in the pavement had all dissolved into a state of unimportance as he drifted on in his own little world.

He would often take an hour out of work to come here and refuel the flame of compassion that seemed to be dying a little every day.

One hour a day keeping him sane in an otherwise insane world.

Realisation dawned on him with the potency of a tonne of bricks. The source of the atypical feeling did not involve bad food or shaken nerves. It involved his work, or the lack thereof, and the loss of a valid reason to compress his therapy into an hour.

It was undeniably odd.

Shinra's generosity did not exactly extend very far when it came to vacations but he did give his underlings a few weeks out in the year. Even so, Rude had not taken a vacation in the past four years. Fully aware of the complications that had arisen, his stubborn nature would not allow him to rest and let the bloodstains evaporate off his soul until he felt he deserved it.

Well, he told himself it was his stubborn nature but most knew that he had no family or friends to spend his time off with, the isolation liable to deteriorate his mind further. As often as Reno professed, spending a week alone in the mountain range of Nibelheim, sitting on the hood of his car, drinking beers and throwing the empty cans over the rocky outcrop did not sound like fun to him.

By now, the sad and pathetic truth was that the only loved one he had left was his career.

Tseng had known for months that the bloodstains on his soul were overdue for a spot of spiritual cleansing and could only feel guilty himself, after all, it was he that had assigned Rude to that fateful mission. He was responsible for warning him about the dangers of getting attached to one's victims.

He had failed him.

And so, after offering the ultimatum '_You can either take the vacation for a week or you can get fired and take the longest vacation of your life_', Tseng could feel happy about _one_ of the thorns stuck in his conscience.

Sighing heavily, Rude moved closer to the link fencing that surrounded the playground. The strong lights washed over the entire ground covered in a carpet of fake grass, the green hue so unnatural in the artificial world, more of an insult than a compliment to the poverty-stricken land.

The grass extended the perimeter of the park, surrounding the soft tarmac that held the swing-sets, the slides and the roundabout. Most of the rides were in poor condition, either rusting or decaying or standing seconds away from collapsing but the children still cherished them like forgotten treasures.

The sounds of the children laughing and playing seemed a distant memory in his mind. That universal sound of innocence and happiness was so sweet then but still managed to carve through his ears like nails on a chalkboard.

He did not hate happiness. He just could not understand why others were blessed with something that had been compromised from him.

Looking up at the plate and then down to the darkness at the children playing in the dirt, he allowed a tear to formulate in his eye. He did not blink or wipe it away but let it express his moral disgust.

_Who am I to talk about equality and injustice? I've been living in affluence for the past ten years literally and metaphorically **above** the slums. I wipe my shoes above their home and drain my sewage down to the playgrounds where these children draw shapes in the soil with stone and cut their fingers on rusted chains and still, through it all, manage to simply laugh and express their innocence._

The tear rolled down his cheek before he wiped it away.

"You wanna go higher, Jake?"

He shuddered at the sound of her voice, the nasal accent he had found cute all those years ago suddenly becoming the epitome of everything irritating.

Her tangled mess of red hair invaded her shoulders, just extending beyond the nape of her neck; a bright and vibrant colour in a somewhat monochromatic environment. Leaning against the swing frame, wrapped in a clean, white overcoat that amplified her relatively affluent status, she smiled and pushed her son to increase the amplitude of his swings and the sound of his giggles.

He could remember the first time he set eyes upon her. Seven years ago, she was nothing more than a nineteen-year-old waitress working in Sector Four. He was fresh out of the Academy, finally graduating to become a fully fledged Turk. She was his first assignment. It was a strange and daunting experience enveloped in shrouds of secrecy, scandal and politics.

He had never been told how he was supposed to act once he had been shipped down to that cafe with a modest inventory of a picture and a tape recorder. Put simply, he was told to impress his superiors.

In his over-eager state he had accepted the mission and left for the bar the next day.

He could remember it as though it was yesterday. Her shift would not start for another thirty minutes as he pushed open the saloon-style doors and made his way over to a vacant table. Making sure the locals would not become an obstacle, he kept quiet and shooed away the buzzing waiters trying to get him drunk, simply sitting, hidden conspicuously under a menu, waiting for her to arrive.

The clocks ticked. The regulars entered and left. Alcohol was consumed. Food was cooked. He waited.

The doors creaked on their hinges at precisely five in the evening as she entered. He slouched down on his seat, lowering the menu from his eyes before her image struck them; a bright young woman, smiling warmly and dressed sensibly in her button jacket. Her cheery attitude spread through the building like rays of sunshine through open curtains, killing the somewhat sepulchral moods of the regulars. They all perked up as she arrived. They all began to smile.

Even _he_ found himself smiling.

He wanted her heart, but, in a slightly different way, so did Rufus Shinra.

"You still wanna go higher?"

Rude snapped back to reality and stared at the woman pushing his son on the swings, keeping well hidden.

"All right, come on, Jake, honey. Time to go home."

Swallowing the slab of heartache, he stepped back, in need of someone to tell him everything would turn out for the best, that he would be able to strike a deal with his ex-wife and see his son. He just needed a few words of moral support and reassurance.

Where was Reno when he needed him?

The plate above trapped the rising steam from the gutters, heating the slums below like a pressure cooker, but he still buried his neck in his coat as he sauntered back through the urban wasteland, the sweat dribbling down his neck.

The footsteps became louder, almost personifying his guilt and disgust the further he travelled from his son. All he needed to say was a simple yet late _Happy Birthday_. He didn't even need the present, as long as Jake knew he was there for him. As long as he knew he still cared. He wanted to make sure he hadn't felt abandoned and left out in the cold by the last person that truly cared for him.

For a moment, he wondered. He wondered whether Jake even realised his father was missing. He wondered if he asked his mother questions about his dad.

He wondered.

_I can imagine her pinning everything on me. All the guilt, all the shame, all the-_

_Wait, why shouldn't she blame me? What have I done to deserve his love? Have I even gone the slightest bit out of my way to fight for him?_

Yes, equality and justice meant everything to him but nothing to the divorce courts. She was earning less money, abusing alcohol and living in a portion of the world where the number of people being shot dead in the street surpassed the number of kids graduating high school.

None of it mattered. Maternal custody always worked in the eyes of the law and in the eyes of nature.

_But what about the laws of life? The laws of the streets? The laws of love?_

He shook his head, lost in his own thoughts. He didn't even hear her shouting before he ploughed straight through her.

Yanking off his shades, he stared at the young woman he had carelessly bumped into, lying face first on the concrete with grocery bags strewn haphazardly on the pavement.

"Shit! I'm sorry! I didn't see you."

He helped her up to her knees and began fervently grabbing at tin cans rolling across the street and pieces of fruit, now bruised on impact.

The woman dusted herself off and shook her head.

"Don't worry about it. It happens to the best of us."

She held out the three bags as he continued to place items within them, buckling under the weight of them all.

"Here, ma'am, why don't you let me help you."

He took two of the surprisingly heavy bags and held them under his arms before obtaining a better view of the young woman.

She smiled, ensuring that she found the whole escapade amusing, inducing him to smile, too. Her lips were thin and ruby red, hidden under a layer of cherry lip balm.

Something about her seemed so familiar.

"My name's Tifa," she said, holding out her free hand for a shake.

_It's her!_

His jaw dropped, unaware if it was due to his underestimation of her beauty or the taboo of seeing her face to face.

Her smile grew larger as she removed her hand and chuckled, "Hey, mister. Are you okay?"

"I-I…uh…"

"Hmm, not only are you sharp dresser but you're one hell of a smooth talker."

He failed to appreciate the sarcasm and simply shook his head.

"Oh, um… listen, where's your car? I'll help take these bags over for you."

"Look around you," she replied, raising her free hand again, this time to gesture at the rack and ruin before them. "This is one of the poorest neighbourhoods in the poorest sector of the slums. If you own a car here you're pretty much royalty."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

She pulled a strange face, a face he had never really seen before. It was as though her eyes were conveying the laughter that her lips had no room for, expressing a form of happiness that he did not witness much.

"Don't worry, Brown-eyes. It takes quite a lot to offend me," she replied, nodding in a general direction. "My place is just this way."

They began to walk slowly through the street in solitude, a single pin drop inaudible, the sounds of shuffling grocery bags drowning out the awkward situation.

It did not take long for him to feel as though it was necessary to reopen the conversation.

_What would be the harm? I'm no longer on duty. This is my vacation and I'm simply making conversation with a woman I met in the street._

It took a solid five minutes of pondering before he uttered, "_Brown-eyes_?"

She walked ahead of him, leading the way, and chose not to turn back as she said, "Yep. I tend to name people by the colour of their eyes when they don't want to name themselves."

He didn't take the hint.

She realised this and turned back, slowing her pace so that they could walk side by side.

"If you prefer, I could call you _Mister_ or _Stranger_ or-"

He finally took the hint.

"Oh, my name's Rude, Rude Carter."

"Hmm, you gave me your surname, too. That's rather formal of you. It usually means you would rather become a business associate rather than a close friend or a lover."

She had not said the last word with any extra emphasis or inclination that she was flirting with him, but he still found her moving incredibly fast, especially as they had just met thirty seconds ago. She was far bolder than he had ever imagined she could be.

Or far crazier.

"Really? Are you a psychologist of some sort?"

"No," she said, the word splitting into an unusual number of syllables as she laughed. "I just read a lot of girly magazines. Up until happy hour there's not much else to do in my bar."

He continued to struggle with the bags under his arms, wondering how she ever juggled all three at once.

"Oh, are you Tifa as in _Tifa's Seventh Heaven_?"

She nodded.

"Yup, that's me. I'm surprised you know about my establishment, I've never seen you in there."

"I must admit, I don't come down to the slums much but I do know my way around. Speaking of which, isn't your bar at least one and a half miles from here?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"And you're content to just walk all the way on your own through these dark streets?"

She stopped and raised her brows. Speaking in a soft innocent voice, she said, "You think this little lady can't protect herself? It's a good thing I found a big strong man to come and protect me."

He inhaled sharply, his way of laughing - genuinely laughing - at something he found amusing.

"I thought it took a lot to offend you."

She continued to walk as she said, "Well, you're very observant, Rude Carter, I'll give you that. I guess I've been living here long enough to know where to steer clear of and how to defend myself. And anyway, we're not going to my bar; I live on Warner Street, which is about one and _three quarter_ miles from here."

He nodded along, walking closer to her; close enough to smell the shampoo in her hair. It was sweet and pleasant, just like she seemed to be.

"You can just call me Rude if you want."

"All right, Rude."

"Aren't you going to tell me your surname? Or do you wish to be more than just a business associate?"

He began to flirt back, losing all of sight of his conscience. The memories of who she was and what he was doing here had vanished, along with those of his ex-wife and his son. He had even lost that atypical feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Here he was, living for the moment, not worrying about failure in the future or being impeded by the past.

She smiled warmly and looked into his eyes.

"Hmm?" she simply said, quizzically surveying his expressionless eyes. "_Lockhart_."

"_Lockhart_? It's very pretty. I believe it's of ancient Nibelheimian origin? An amalgam of the archaic Nibelheimian words _Locus _and _Hartan_?"

Her eyes lit up like beacons.

"Wow! What a well serviced library you must have in that head of yours," she said, refraining from joining the adjective _shiny_ to the word _head_. "I didn't even know that myself, although I have sorta' gotten out of touch with my roots. I haven't really come to terms with some… family politics yet. Well, I can't really say _family_. I'm the only Lockhart left."

"That's too bad. There's nothing worse than feeling alone, especially in a city like this. I know how tough it can get sometimes."

"Oh, are you the only Carter left?"

"I wish I could say I was but I don't even know if Carter was my real name. I was abandoned at birth and adopted by a military sergeant in SOLDIER-"

"Here, let me help you with that you big pansy," she giggled, taking the heavier bag he had been struggling to grasp onto for the past ten minutes, a simple way to divert the conversation to something less sombre.

"I'm not good with grocery bags. I do most of my shopping online," he said, trying not to sound too ashamed that she had stolen his masculinity so easily. He was left with no other option but to rely on his weak conversational skills. They were due a reuse and a dusting to get rid of the cobwebs, and no matter how awkward it made him feel, he had to do this. He had to do something positive and interact with a new, strange, beautiful human being for the sake of his own mental health, no longer wishing to open his eyes in the morning and feel utterly despondent just because the sky was not the softest shade of blue or because the birds did not chirp sweetly enough.

No, he wanted to open his eyes in the morning and realise that the beauty of the world around him paled in comparison to the beauty sleeping beside him-

Well, he was moving slightly ahead of himself, but he had good reason. This was the first time in a while he had spoken to a woman with intent to actually become her friend and see where it took him.

"Get used to it, SOLDIER-boy," she replied. "I'm gonna be calling on you to carry all my grocery bags for the rest of your life as compensation for knocking me to the ground." She managed to nudge him. "Of course, we're gonna have to build up those noodles you call arms before we do so."

"I don't know. That seems like a pretty bad deal to me. How about I just compensate you by buying you a cup of coffee? There's a nice little café on Sumner Street up on the plate."

She sucked the air through her teeth and looked back at him, his eyes now beginning to represent something far less stoic. She was not really busy as the bar would not open for another two hours, she had finished all of her errands, she wasn't expecting to see Reno until tomorrow and, thanks to her disinterest in the latest AVALANCHE scheme, no longer had to sit through Barret's loud pep talk. But she still felt a strange sense of guilt rush through her at the thought of having coffee with a stranger. There would have been nothing romantic about it, after all, she was happy to continue dating Reno and was readily approaching a time where she felt comfortable calling him her boyfriend.

_Just a cup of coffee between new acquaintances, that's all._

Contemplating the idea, she wondered whether Rude would think of it the same way. After her devastating loss of kinship with the members of AVALANCHE - her so called family - she had desperately been in need of new people in her life.

"I don't know, Rude Carter."

"Come on, just one cup of coffee upstairs, Tifa Lockhart," he said, hoping she did not take the light paraphrasing of the giant monstrosity above her home in a negative way.

She lifted her finger up to him.

"I think I like you, Rude - as a friend. You seem pretty cool in your jazzy outfit and your shades even though it's relatively pitch black down here. But listen, I don't wanna get your hopes up or anything-"

"No, don't sweat it," he replied, trying to hide his disappointment with a gentle touch of her shoulder. "I'm just trying to make a new friend here in this lonely city. _Honestly_."

She narrowed her eyes and gave in.

"Alright, but I can't really go all the way up to the plate. I have to open up my bar soon, so why don't you just come to my place and I'll make a pot of coffee. Keep in mind that it won't taste as good as the stuff they serve in that café."

"I'm sure it tastes delicious," he said, walking behind her once more.

**_Monday, October 11th, 5:11pm – Tifa's Apartment, Sector Seven_**

Finally arriving at her doorstep, she placed her grocery bags by her feet and rummaged through her pockets for her house keys. A whole symphony of metallic sounds emerged before she retrieved the large bunch.

"A lot of people around here will go a long way to steal a handbag so it's usually better to sew large pockets into your clothes and keep everything valuable in them."

"I see. So how do the people here combat pickpockets?" Rude asked, still holding onto the one grocery bag with both arms.

"They don't. It just seems to be the lesser of two evils, I mean, when you get your pocket picked it's kind of like getting a small injury – you don't even know it's happened until you look down and see the blood. If the townspeople complain about getting mugged and then still complain about getting their pockets picked, well, they're just being greedy, aren't they?"

She knew he hadn't quite gotten used to her sardonic nature but wasn't going to change for his benefit. After unlocking the door and shoulder-barging it open, she grabbed her bags off the floor and stepped inside.

"Sorry about the mess. I wasn't exactly expecting company."

"Don't worry about it. I love what you've done with the place. It must be hard to find good décor around here."

She disappeared into one of the back rooms, leaving him alone by the doorway, not comfortable enough to follow her in.

"Oh it's not so bad," he heard her reply. "The nearest IKEA is only a vertical mile away. Hey, can you be a darling and bring that bag in the kitchen?"

He laughed again. She was on a roll.

"I think it's great how you can sound so cheery about the plate," he said, making his way over to the sound of her voice.

"Yeah, you sort of have to make life as easy as you can. Some people paint their homes bright colours and put posters of sunsets on their walls. Others invest their time and money on a collection of records filled with chirpy guitars and lilting violins. But we get by just by making jokes about our own shortcomings."

He placed the bag onto the polished kitchen counter and pursed his lips.

"_We_?" he said, unsure how to downplay his eagerness to hear her response.

"Me and my friends," she replied, picking items out of her bag and placing them in their relative new homes around her kitchen. "If you can't find a way to deal with your problems, you tend to resort to criminal activities."

"So, I guess most people down here can't deal with their problems."

"Pretty much," she giggled, happy to find herself talking about trivial things again.

He could not help but commend her positive enthusiasm and feel disappointed in Reno, deeming his colleagues comments as complete under-estimations. He had carped on about how boring she was when, in all honesty, he had never been more interested in another human being in a long time.

Her beauty just seemed to multiply his infatuation by ten.

She opened the refrigerator and bent down to place a carton of peaches on the bottom shelf. Rude averted his gaze, feeling a swell of jealousy flow throw him.

_How the hell could Reno not get an erection?_

"So, what's business like in this Sector?" he asked after counting back from ten.

She looked up and closed the refrigerator.

"Pretty good. There're a lot of reasons to drown your sorrows around here so people tend to do so vividly."

"I hear through the grapevine that you serve really great food, too. I must come over there some time and compliment the chef."

She lifted her arms in a gesture of muted modesty.

"You can do so right now. The chef is standing right in front of you." She winked and found a few matches under the sink. After a few strikes she lit it and transferred the flame to the old eyesore of a stove, the centrepiece of the kitchen. "I hope you don't mind tap water. There's nothing to worry about. The germs all die when the water boils."

"I'm sure you can get some cheap filters that get rid of all the bacteria."

"It's not the bacteria I'm worried about," she said, placing the kettle on the stove. "It's the lead water pipes that worry me more."

She tapped the counter as she waited for it to boil and raised her brows at the now silent figure standing by the doorway, unsure whether the prospect of making this rich boy drink dirty water scared him more than her attempt to throw him off, acting half tomboy and half girly-girl. "So, you didn't tell me what you do for a living. How do you earn your bread, Carter?"

"Oh, that's not important."

"Come on, I wanna know. It's not everyday you see a guy in a nice suit from the upper plate in the slums. What brings you down here?"

He squirmed a little, trying not to show it. Her attention was luckily averted by the whistling kettle. He was a Turk and should have known the basic aversion techniques for these kinds of situations. But he had hit a blank for some strange reason. His mouth dried. His forehead began to produce a few beads of sweat.

As she placed the boiled water into two mugs she looked back at him. The look in her eyes suddenly forced him to say something.

"Uh, probably the same reason you've been down here."

"Say what?"

"The Nibelheimian name, the Nibelheimian accent; I'm guessing you were born and raised there right?"

She slid his mug over the counter, blowing hers before taking a sip.

"Yeah," she said. narrowing her eyes accusingly before chuckling. "Am I really that obvious?"

"Unfortunately. So what made you wanna move down here?"

She clasped the hot clay mug between her fingers and held it close to her chin, watching the steam evaporate before her eyes in a state of reminiscence.

"It wasn't really my choice to come down here from Nibelheim. I was brought here."

She took another sip and decided to skip the unnecessary details. He would ask her to fill in the blanks if he really wanted too, but she knew it was something to tell on another day. Something she would tell him if they became closer friends.

"I initially stayed for the friends I made. They're a real bunch of characters." Her eyes began to wander as she continued. "When I was about eighteen I started renting out an old apartment where me and my friends would hang out. We would chill out on old cushions, listening to the newest finger-style guitarists on the only local radio station not polluted by the Shinra and just drank a few beers.

"Then one of my friends, Biggs, you might meet him if he comes around here, started bringing a few more friends around. He made me charge them for their inconvenience and any beer they drank. Then, as time went on, more and more people started coming just to buy some cheap alcohol off me." She rubbed the corners of her eyes as she sighed. "I was kinda stupid because I eventually lost my apartment. I didn't exactly know it was illegal to sell alcohol without a license at the time."

Rude raised his brows as he said, "I didn't know they enforced those kinds of laws down here."

"They don't in reality. I think it was just the landlady. She was jealous that I was making more money than she was out of her own property. So I eventually got a license and, with the money I invested during that one year period, bought an old bar on the brink of destruction downtown. I set it up and haven't looked back since. I don't know if it's the customers or the money or my friends… but I just feel like this has become my home. It doesn't exactly mean I like this place but I don't exactly have many other options left."

She stopped as she heard the kitchen door opening and saw a familiar head poking through.

"Hey, Jessie," she said, a little surprised at her sudden intervention. Draining her coffee, she placed the mug in the sink before welcoming her new guest and getting the awkward introductions out of the way. "This is Rude. I bumped into him on the way home today."

"Oh. Hey," she said, nodding in his general direction.

Rude took a sip of hiss coffee and placed it on the counter, barely drinking any of it. He wiped his hands on the back of his trousers and backed away to the door.

"Listen, Tifa, I'll get out of your hair."

"Leaving so soon?" Tifa asked, not emphasizing it strongly enough for him to believe that she actually wanted him to stay.

"Yes. I better be going. Thanks for the coffee, it was great. Maybe I'll see you around at the Seventh Heaven." He squeezed past Jessie and reopened the kitchen door. "I'll let myself out."

Jessie could not help but look away as they passed each other in such close proximity. His presence made her feel cold and vulnerable.

"See ya," Jessie said, suddenly scowling as she marched over to Tifa. "_What the hell do you think you're doing_?"

"Just having a cup of coffee, Jess. It's no big deal."

"Oh, my God, Tifa. You want me to jog your memory regarding the major events that occurred over the last couple of days? OK. We went shoe shopping, Biggs _accidentally _swallowed three Gil in change, AVALANCHE decided to bomb a couple of mako reactors, I got a new haircut and, oh yeah, some sleazy Shinra spy planted some cameras in your bar!"

Tifa furrowed her brows and placed her hand over her hanging jaw. "No, you - you don't think that was the guy, do you?" she hissed, huddling closer to Jessie.

"I really think it was. He matches every single description Sheila gave us of our _mystery_ health inspector."

"I... I can't believe this! It was him wasn't it? _It was_!"

"Tifa, honey, I hope it wasn't, but I-"

"It _was_ him wasn't it?" she interjected. "It's just my bad freakin' luck! All the time…"

Jessie placed her hand over Tifa's mouth and hushed her quickly.

"Listen, Tifa. Calm down. We can deal with this later. First thing's first; I came here to tell you something... something really important."

After she had finished hyperventilating, she nodded in an attempt to make Jessie continue.

"I heard Barret's really upset about how you aren't on board with this whole mako reactor bombing plot."

"Tell me something new, Jess."

"OK. Well, I just heard him say he's coming over here any time now. I've got a really bad feeling but I think he may ask you to leave AVALANCHE."

She waited for a response, for an objection, for a shake of the head, for a blink - for anything.

"Tifa, didn't you hear me? You have to prepare for the worst. I've never seen the man act like this before."

She stopped as Barret gently rapped on her kitchen door before he entered.

"Could ya give us a minute, Jess?" he asked, shakily.

"Sure," she replied, mentally photographing her friend in case this was their final encounter. "I'll see ya later, Teef."


	8. Decadence

**8**

**_Monday, October 11th, 10:38pm – Liquid Gravity, Upper Plate _**

He only ever came here to forget about women, or to put it a better way, he came here to forget about _a _woman. It left him feeling weak and pathetic when one of them had somehow managed to use his mind as a scratching post. The suits, the shades and the guns no longer gave him a sense of power; after all, what purpose did they serve if a woman could leave him defenceless with just a flutter of her eyelids?

He continued to breathe heavily, jumping the steps two at a time to the basement, feeling the music through his chest progressively getting louder and more energetic, so strident that it was almost visible amongst the electric-blue lights and flawless twenty-somethings dancing around it. It surrounded him, engulfed him in its cocoon of heavy bass and ear splitting snare beats, almost lifting him up through the room.

His pupils dilated, making the young women gyrating and grinding against each other visible in the darkness. He spotted one particular woman amongst the flock of dancers by the bar. A perfect ten.

Just the way he liked them.

Still unaware of any other remedy, his law was simple and concise: _the only way to forget one woman is to have sex with another_.

It sounded simple enough and, in more cases than not, actually worked until the new woman began to play on his mind. It was a broken system and, even though he tried his hardest to seem ignorant of it, he always knew it. But he was a man and these types of decisions were based on his desire, nay, his _instinct_ to spread his seed.

The fingers of his left hand began to dance as though they were itchy to draw a gun at high noon, while those of his right hand explored the red jungle atop his scalp. Scratching his head often gave those a sign of his current state, one of which he was seldom seen in; a state of pondering.

_If there truly is a God, why would he give man the urge to think about sex every six minutes and then tell him it's a sin? _

_God is a woman_, he thought to himself as he moved ever closer to the vivacious blonde by the bar. _She's a man-hating dyke of a woman!_ _She gives men vast brain space, then only allows them to use ten percent of it, then fills most of the remaining ten percent with school uniforms and booby-tassels!_

His defiance was simply a matter of classic rebellion, forcing him to head in the complete opposite direction to any authoritative figure he despised. So, his strict Catholic father and his hippy of a lesbian mother could be credited for moulding him into the man he is today; a blaspheming, philandering, homophobic murderer.

He was in close enough range to smell her heavenly perfume now. She was so alluring. He hadn't even noticed his legs marching towards her, completely at her mercy. Like a predator stalking its prey, he stopped every now and again upon reaching a safe distance to simply look at her. She smiled a lot, displaying her pearly whites almost constantly. So, she was sociable too. She looked confident. She looked strong.

Moving another few feet, trapped between the thick body heat and the heavy electro music, he stopped again as she leaned over the bar to shout an order to the barman, exposing a few heavenly centimetres above her thighs.

"Oh, thank God!" he though aloud, a wide grin emerging upon his face. "My problem isn't permanent!"

He waited for a moment or two for his now alleviated predicament to disappear before making his way over. Mimicking the woman's posture with his arms folded, leaning over the bar, he caught her eye and the two smiled at each other flirtatiously for a split second before she giggled and looked away. He waited for her to look back before he smiled again and held his hand out. She took it and shook it in her own feminine manner, leaning closer to his mouth to catch his name.

"Hi, Reno," she shouted, moving her ruby red lips over to his ear. "I'm Katy."

"Let me get this for you," he yelled, opening his wallet and placing a few crisp notes on the glass counter. She took her drink and sipped at it, savouring every last drop, every last molecule, every last chemical that electrified her taste-buds.

It hadn't taken her long to feel comfortable in his presence. With a swift movement she grabbed his arm. He now belonged to her, her possession, her play-thing. Dragging him to the very core of the dancing human river, she pressed her body up against his and began to grind they way he had seen her before. She ruffled her hair and bopped along with the bass drum, licking her lips as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

For the next minute they were lost in each others' eyes, saying nothing at all, simply letting the rhythm whisk them away. In a moment of intense pleasure she danced close enough for him to feel the hot sweat evaporating off her heaving chest.

It was slightly euphoric, if euphoria could ever be slight.

Her lips pressed against his ears and she began to slur her words, mumbling and trailing off into the distance. He extracted meaning from it by following her through the crowd.

Patiently waiting for a moment or two, she held open a door, the words _KEEP THE FUCK OUT_ jaggedly etched into it. Beyond it, a gaping void of darkness awaited, much darker than the dance floor like a yawning chasm of inexplicable bliss. He found himself drawn into it, again not completely of his own volition.

She shut the door behind them, muffling the music and encasing them in more darkness. Following the smell of her perfume down to the other end of the hall, he tugged at his jacket, wrapping it over his chest as though the lack of light somehow meant his surroundings were stereotypically cold.

"So, why did you choose me?" he asked, caring little for the answer. He just wanted to make sure she was still there.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sure you've been here long enough and I'm definite that countless guys have tried hitting on you."

"I don't know, Reno," a response came from ahead. "How do we define attractiveness? What makes one man sexier than the other?"

"Isn't that just a matter of opinion?"

"Maybe. You know the real question is, out of every single woman in this bar, why did you choose _me_?"

"That is a good question," he responded. "Let's just say my body comes equipped with its own chick compass that permanently faces north."

"How sweet," she giggled.

And so they carried on for another five minutes in silence, the corridor bending this way and that, splitting here and meandering there. The magnificently constructed, yet invisible, walls stood hidden by shadows and adorned by large paintings visible under black lights. As the only visual stimuli available, he couldn't help but draw his complete attention to them as they floated around him in this shaded medium. The artist of such images must have been incredibly clever to force dark adaptation upon observers before giving them what could only be described as a visually orgasmic cocktail of electric colours, obscure shapes and awe-inspiring captions. The obscurity of it all obviously added to the desired effect, although it only seemed to give Reno the impression of a fat balding 'artist' that still lived with his mother, had way to much time on his hands and had never seen a vagina once in his life, other than those in his mountains of pornography.

He suddenly felt even more philosophical. It wasn't a generally pleasant feeling.

"What are all these paintings about?"

She pursed her lips, not that he would be able to see it, as she said, "The owner of them has a certain taste for art."

"It really is an acquired taste, huh?"

She laughed, the sound fluttering through the thick atramental air.

Amazed at how she navigated this darkened set of corridors with such ease, he called out rather loudly, "What is this place? I've been coming to this club for years but I've never been in here before."

"Makes you feel kind of weird doesn't it? Turks get treated like royalty by everybody. They tend to feel short changed when there's some exclusive and somewhat shady activity going on right under their nose. It makes them feel-"

"Like everyone else," he interjected. "How did you know I was a-?"

"Don't worry, Reno, honey. I think you're pretty special."

She placed a palm over his chest, stopping him dead in his tracks by a concealed door. Moving closer to him once more, she wrapped her lips around his, not a kiss typically seen between two sober strangers.

"You can keep a secret, can't you?"

Without giving him time to respond she clutched onto his shirt and dragged him through a pool of light that cascaded into the hallway. The whirring sound of a motor forced him look back at the metallic doors that intricately slid together like something out of a James Bond movie.

Leather seats flanked the room between the anachronistic furniture, groovy lava lamps and a familiar set of paintings only visible under ultra-violet light. The men occupying the seats received lap-dances from incredibly beautiful women.

A few swirled around poles, the rest danced on thick blocks of glass containing fresh water and a variety of exotic fish. They were the kind of women that took the Friday night spot in strip clubs, the kind that were discarded like a used Kleenex if they owned the slightest physical blemish and the kind strictly reserved for very important people like Reno himself.

It was that simple; the sight of a nipple, preferably two, suddenly made him feel perfectly at home.

The long walk in the dark had paid off.

The women may have been of the same calibre but the men were of a diverse variety; Wutaian businessmen in their elegant suits; scary bikers with multicoloured Mohawks and tattoos plastered over every inch of their sweaty skin; even a few Average Joes in their generic brand-named T-shirts and jeans. They all sat in separate areas of the large room, without the luxury of cordoned sections, on leather sofas with fluffy pink cushions scattered here and there. The electro music from the dance floor had been replaced by soft Jungle music, inflating Reno's mind as it percolated through his head.

He gave the men as wide a berth as possible as he followed Katy to the end of the room, not that they would have noticed him anyway. She pushed him down onto the remaining free sofa and gave him another quick kiss before taking a seat herself.

Looking down at the two lines of powder on the glass table, he swallowed hard. The very sight of them alone sent a bundle of intoxicating emotions through his body.

Katy removed a small tube from her handbag, an object that looked as though it had been designed solely for one purpose. Leaning over, exposing that backside once more, she placed the tube in her nostril, clamped the other one shut with her finger and vacuumed a line. As soon as she had finished she jerked upright and let off a satisfied moan, sniffing the air and wiping the base of her nose twitchily. She soon let her eyes open and handed the tube over to Reno.

He stared at the line reserved for him.

How long had it been sitting on this table? Had this strange woman been expecting him all night?

The room began to shrink. It was filled with women in school uniforms gently spanking one another and women wearing booby-tassels jumping up and down to _House of Pain_, completely overriding the eight or nine percent of brain space Reno had left aside strictly for them. His head was spinning – he hadn't even snorted the coke yet!

He grabbed the small tube, twiddled it around impressively in his fingers as though he had been doing this all his life, allowing Katy to giggle. Laboriously, he inhaled the air deeply and leaned over, snorting the entire line. It burnt his nostril and sent a pulse of energy through his skull, the particles scratching against his lungs as they frenetically rushed through him.

He sat up, soon grappled by the elusive blonde as she forced her tongue into his mouth and groped his crotch.

"You know there's a saying down in the Slums-"

Reno suddenly bolted upright like a meerkat, pushing Katy away as the masculine voice rang through his ears. After blinking rapidly, the large white blob resolved itself into a man draped in a white overcoat. His jewellery rattled as he bent over to give Katy a kiss on the cheek.

"U-Uh... do I know you?" Reno asked, completely shell-shocked.

The man sat beside the blonde, wrapping his arm over her shoulder. He waved his burly bodyguards away and winked at the Turk.

"No, you don't know me."

"Hey, Julius," Katy whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Can I get you a drink, Reno?"

He barely moved before realising he had to respond. Shaking his head, he kept his gaze transfixed through Julius' dull eyes, trying not to look down at the huge gap between his front teeth.

"As pampered as a Turk," Julius said, chuckling merrily. He carefully removed a cocktail glass from a passing waiter, the puce liquid shimmering under the vast number of lights around the room. After taking a quick sip he placed the glass down on the table over the specks of powder that hadn't quite found their way through Katy's special tube.

"Are you familiar with the expression?"

He soon found himself floating on a cloud, his heart pounding like the heavyweight champion punching him in the chest. He could feel the music tickling his ears. He could smell the cigar smoke and sweat in the room with all the nasal potency of a bloodhound.

"I, I can't say that I am," he whispered, wondering what the hell he was doing here.

"I won't blame you," Julius replied, his rich baritone voice wrapped in a lower class accent. "Most Turks never have."

"I'm sorry, but what's going on here?"

"I've dealt with many men in my time, Reno. Men living in the gutter that would murder their own mothers for another piece of bread to eat. Men living lives of extreme wealth that would murder their own mothers to add another zero onto the end of their salary. Men of all shape, size and colour.

"Now, at the end of the day, I'm not saying honesty is bad, but many of the poor men are just _too_ honest, hell, that's why they're poor!" he chuckled, a few goons sat in the distance laughing along with him.

Reno had heard that kind of laugh before; _The Boss Laugh_. It was a pathetic sound to hear, although if Tseng stopped hiding behind his work persona and managed to crack a joke once in a while, no matter how painfully lame it might be, he would have probably humoured him by laughing along. After all, any man unprepared to laugh at his boss' jokes was just asking for trouble.

"Poor people don't take risks," Julius continued. "They're afraid of the system and because of that they find themselves getting trapped. You may be able to get one or two jobs out of them before guilt and fear settles in their nerves. After that they're nothing more than an expensive liability.

"The rich, dare I say it, are even worse than the poor. You'll get as many jobs out of them as you can get because they're ruthless, they're sly and they're willing to do anything to satisfy their greed. Greed, however, is the worst quality a man can possess. It's worse than idiocy or cowardice."

Reno began to feel uncomfortable. He crossed his legs to appear unfazed by the whole situation. "So," he said, barely audible over his thumping heart, "what does any of that have to do with me?"

Julius rolled one of the countless rings around his index finger and licked his teeth, bobbing his head as though he was impressed by the Turk's ignorance.

"Let me put it to you this way, Reno. When you walked in here, did you even think about the incredibly complex series of events that must have occurred for that door to open and close automatically? Did you know about the microwave sensors, the reflective optical sensors and the triangulation sensors that work using state of the art technology designed by highly intelligent men, or have you simply gotten used to everything happening automatically for you?"

He had successfully made Reno feel stupid. That wasn't the greatest idea.

"Uh..." he replied, his eyes darting up and down, not precisely sure where to fixate.

Suddenly jumping up to his feet, Julius pointed a chubby finger at the Turk, forcing Katy on to the other side of the seat, shuddering uncontrollably. With specks of saliva erupting from his mouth, he growled viciously, "You better think carefully before you answer this, do you hear me boy! Are you... staring... at the gap in my motherfucking teeth!"

The other burly men soon stood behind Julius gritting their teeth and rolling their necks.

Reno continued to stare at the man like an imbecile staring at a television. He knew these uber-powerful men – they didn't like flaws, especially those that were their own.

He gulped and nodded.

"Yes. Although they say people with gaps in their teeth are superstitiously predisposed to be successful."

_Where the hell did I get that statistic from?_

The burning anger in Julius' eyes soon began to dissolve. He lost the twitch in his muscles and even began to smile, displaying the gap like a work of art.

"You see," he boomed, sitting back down again, stroking Katy's shoulder as though she were his pet. "Turks are always honest _when it counts_. You'll tell me truth but in a way I like to hear."

Reno soon grinned along as the burly men sat back down again.

"Like sprinkling sugar on shit, right?" he asked, warming up to the compliments.

"You could put it that way. Look, I'm not saying you're all angels now, after all, every human being is inclined to tell a little white lie now and again – but you Turks," he exclaimed joyfully, pointing at Reno once more. "You Turks," he continued, "are honest _when it counts_. You have the qualities of the rich man and the poor man with a mind and a body trained from youth to murder. You, my boy, are _perfect_."

His jaw dropped even lower as he tried to comprehend the situation. Glancing over at Katy did not exactly help, but it induced a little smirk as she winked at him.

"I can see you're partial to blondes," he announced, hugging Katy a little closer to his body. "A man after my own heart, eh?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Reno asked, snapping back to reality.

"You're a little slower on the uptake than I anticipated but I'll forgive you for it. This must be a strange experience; although you are a Turk... how much stranger can it get?" He released Katy from his tight grip and leaned closer to Reno, beckoning him with his finger. "How would you react if I said you could have ten blondes all at the same time?" He laughed loudly and clapped his hands together at the sight of Reno's slightly lopsided smile. "I thought that might rouse your interest."

"Wait, I could _have_ them? That sounds a little strange, even coming from my chauvinistic mouth."

"Alright, I phrased that a little incorrectly. I love women. Life would be pointless without them. My drive for success stems from my desire to please them." He waved in all general directions. "You see these girls here? Sure you might think they made a few bad career decisions, but all they do is dance around all day and suck a few dicks to get paid more in a month than you'll get in a year."

He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead and released a mollifying sigh.

"Alright, I'm all ears."

He looked over at Katy. She sat obediently by Julius' side. The Turk was still shocked by the vagarious nature of the woman. Were they all like that? Did it only take money and the prospect of a future bordered by more lines of cocaine for them to act this way?

"That's what I love about Turks; the decadence. You've lived the poor life of a petty criminal and the high life of a socialite's puppy dog. You're perfect for _this_ career. It's all just a matter of slight adjustments."

Reno soon began to feel the peak euphoria of the cocaine. He wriggled around on his seat, smiling at Katy as she fondled him with her bare foot under the table. Of all the weird and wonderful shapes and colours dancing through his mind he could not pick out one recognisable image. When they swirled around like water in an unplugged sink they toyed with his mind and his body. But, after a few more moments they began to congeal together. The colours stopped dead in one place to slowly form the image of a certain brunette.

_What was her name?_

**T**

**I**

**F**

**A**

The letters danced before his eyes like lightning bolts.

He shuddered and looked back at Julius as he said, "So, you want me to quit being a Turk?"

"No, heavens no. I would never want to be the man responsible for making you leave your job. I just want to give you a little taste of what I have to offer. After about a month or so you can choose for yourself whether you wish to be one of my men."

"One of your men, huh? And what would I do as one of your men?"

"Whatever the hell I ask you to do. Whether it's getting me a soda or offing a son of a bitch that doesn't like coughing up some green. Let me break it down for you. Not only will you be paid in cash, these women here will be happy to cater for any of your _needs_. You'll get as much Charlie as you can snort, a beautiful courtesy car; how does Rolls Royce sound? Oh and don't forget the country mansion overlooking the ocean. You Turks may be pampered but not to this extreme. Sounds too good to be true doesn't it?"

Reno pursed his lips and shook his head.

"Nope, not really. Don't forget, I'm a Turk. You told me about the decadence yourself. I just don't know if this quality I have, call it what you will, is really worth everything you're offering."

Julius laughed again, thoroughly pleased with this choice.

"My, my. We've found a_ very_ honest Turk. Have I hit the jackpot or what?"

"Uh,"

"Listen, why don't I just shut up and let Katy do the rest of the persuading?"

Katy sprang back to life, grabbing Reno by the arm once more and pulling him behind a set of thick red curtains at the far reaches of the room. He was sure he did not need another minute to think, but what would be the harm in five more minutes of persuasion?

**_Monday, October 11th, 11:56pm – Tifa's Seventh Heaven, Sector Seven_**

There was no need to fear the dark now, not anymore. She could hide within darkness, she could become one with it and confide with it. It never expected anything of her and never spoke behind her back. It offered a subtle form of comfort in her solitude – yes, everyone else may have feared it but that just meant there was more of it for her.

She wiped down another glass behind the bar in utter silence, the only illumination offered by the small blinking standby light on her television. The drapes had been firmly shut, blocking the stray lights from the lamps and lanterns outside.

There was something about being in such an atmosphere. She almost felt as though she was no longer standing on the planet, no longer a physical entity but a spirit trapped inside her own head. But what does one do when they are truly cordoned off from the world and trapped inside their own heads?

The only thing she could do was reflect.

She could remember the days of her youth playing on hopscotch grids drawn using the chalky stones littering Mount Nibel's base. They were days of innocence, of freedom and of joy. Life had been so much easier as a child, not knowing the evils and hardships that would come her way, unaware of the torture of love and of the vultures that would soon haunt her dreams.

In comparison to her new life, she could almost describe her childhood as living in ignorance's lap of luxury. Lights would switch on, refrigerators would stay cold, televisions would hypnotize her for a few hours a day and the stove magically produced fire to cook her favourite food. But that was all it was – magic. It was enough for her to believe that these things just naturally occurred. Her television and other appliances in her home simply existed and what other explanation could a child need? Why spoil what would be their only last years of blissful ignorance?

She was six years old before she began to question things the day her television began to display screens of grey fuzz instead of the normal cartoons.

She had called her father. He arrived a few moments later, banged the television's side to no avail and left once more only to return with a big blue box of tools. She had been warned never to play with daddy's tools, not that she would ever want to. Their cold metallic surfaces numbed her fingers and failed to interest her in the slightest.

Her father soon began to poke around the back of the television with a sharp silver instrument, an action that resulted in the removal of the back casing. Buzzing with excitement, the young Tifa could not wait to see what kind of weird and wonderful cartoon characters resided in that black plastic box, stamping on one another's tails and throwing sticks of dynamite back and forth solely for her entertainment. But, to her disappointment, all she saw were wires and other objects that looked as cold and bleak as the objects in her father's tool box.

Where were all the cartoons? Where was the lady that predicted the weather or the cowboys and Indians or the dinosaurs and giant gorillas?

She asked her father. She asked him about the cartoon characters and the cowboys and Indians and all the other incredible things she saw on television. He responded as best as he could, informing her of the cameras, the satellites and the electrical cables that powered her television and almost every other appliance in the house. He told her about the wonderful yet dangerous properties of electricity and of the Shinra Electric Power Company.

_Electricity can kill you! _

_Electricity shoots down from the sky in grand zigzagging bolts in the form of lightning!_

_Electricity travels through overhead cables all across the globe to give power to toasters and radios and vacuum cleaners!_

It was quite a bizarre thought that, thankfully for her father, did not evoke questions of _how _electricity powered appliances. She had resorted to leaving the rest to her imagination and to that grey area of her mind that just let things exist without meaning or reason.

That day, as menial as it may have seemed to anyone else, had stuck in her mind forever; the day she had learned about the Shinra Electric Power Company.

_Shinra?_ The name sounded familiar.

It was not until the next day on her way to school that she remembered where she had read the name before. Passing along the only tarmac road in the entire village, her arms wrapped around her books so close to her heart that they could feel it steadily beating, she drifted off from her group of friends and simply stared in awe at the wrought iron bars protruding from earth like black spears from the bowels of hell. Rusted chains knotted themselves amongst the bars, overhanging like dead steel tentacles.

Even with the strong chains strangling the gates, they still managed to sway violently back and forth by a few inches or so in strong winds. The ghostly creaking of the withered hinges and the hellish clang of metal striking metal could send shivers through even the most valiant of men.

Wandering closer, she noticed a small bucket resting upon a plank of wood, oddly symmetrical against the crooked gate, stuffed with garbage and insects, sure in her mind that it had been a mailbox once in its lifetime.

She inched towards it, her heart thumping louder as she did so, peering at the faded text on the metallic body: _The Shinra Mansion_.

From then on, a subconscious mistrust of the word Shinra soon began to formulate in her mind. Who knew something as inconsequential as a malfunctioning television set could alter a person's life in such a prolific manner?

She sighed heavily, staring through the darkness at the blinking red light of her television before wiping away a tear.

Folding her arms over the bar, she rested her head over them and allowed her eyelids to droop shut.

How long could she go on like this? How long would it take for her to completely lose it? How long would it take him to fulfill his promise and rescue her?

She was tired of waiting.

Bolting upright, she stared at the crack of light that soon edged its way along the doorframe. The long and deliberate creak sent a shiver through her spine as the door opened and shafts of dull light poured into the bar, illuminating her misery.

"Go away," she croaked. "We're closed tonight."

The door continued to open, allowing ghostly wisps of wind to tickle her skin. A masculine shadow stood by the aperture in the wall, his facial features soon glowing by flickering firelight as he lit a cigarette. Inhaling deeply, soon afterwards letting out a strident cough, he opened the drapes to one of the windows, illuminating his whole body, producing obscure geometrical shapes all over the opposing wall.

"Didn't you hear me?" she whined, her words not strong enough to be classed as a threat but hoarse as though she had been crying for hours. "I said the get the hell out!"

"Tifa, it's me."

She squinted at the man as he moved closer, removing a bar stool from one of the tables and propping himself upon it. Inhaling sharply again, he couldn't help but wipe his watery eyes as the smoke burnt his throat.

"I haven't smoked in twelve years. I just - I just thought now would be a good time to start up again."

She stared at the man intently, her eyes watering for a completely different reason. With all her strength, she leaned forward and slapped him as hard as she could.

He almost fell back, spitting the cigarette out of his mouth, trying to get a grasp of what had just happened.

"Get the hell out of my bar, you pig!"

"I-It's me! It's me, Rude, remember? I couldn't carry your groceries this afternoon and-"

"Just leave me alone. I don't wanna see your face again," she hissed, storming over to the other side of the bar, scanning the floorboards for glowing embers. She huffed and picked up the cigarette, placing it in her large glass ashtray without docking it, allowing the smoke to drift up to the broken fire detector.

"Could you please let me in on what's going on?" he groaned, rubbing his burning cheek.

"Shouldn't you show me your health inspector's badge before coming in here, or will I have to throw you out?" she asked, staring through his yawning pupils behind the rising tendrils of smoke.

Rude began to sweat. He had known coming here would have been an awful career risking decision, but the thought of never seeing this mysterious woman again had played too heavily on his mind. He had remembered spending the night locked in her bar, simply drinking away a bottle of alcohol as he looked around, collecting evidence of her personality. He had stared at the pictures on the wall; some of the Slums from hundreds of years ago before Shinra's dirty hands had spoilt the industrial chosen land; some amateur paintings he could have spotted being photocopied and sold in the markets for pennies and some photos of her youth, of her friends and her family. He had seen the places she had visited, the people she had met and the emotions she had felt all in single snapshots hung upon the wall.

He had played with the ornaments and souvenirs strewn across the bar, gathering dust, trying to give life to their surroundings without lives of their own. The way she decorated the bar, the way she stacked the chairs on the tables, the way she arranged the glasses and bottles; it all added together to create a mental picture of a wonderfully extravagant and beautiful person trapped in a cesspit of a city.

He could not remove her from his thoughts no matter how hard he tried.

Why couldn't he have talked to her a little more? Why could he have not appeared to be more interesting? Why was he undoubtedly and uncontrollably emotionally attached to her?

_Why?_

_Why?_

_Why?_

His heart continued to thump in his chest, the blood still pumped, he was still alive, but it was no longer capacious enough for another heart to fit within. She was his last hope of happiness. He would have dropped everything for her. He would have told her he would quit Shinra and help her destroy it with his bare hands if he had to.

But before he could speak, she said this, "I got kicked out of AVALANCHE today."

She poured herself a glass of her most expensive red wine and gulped it down quickly. Glaring at his stoic expression, she slammed the glass back down again. "Don't look so shocked, I know you've been spying on us. You probably know more about AVALANCHE than I do."

"I, uh..."

There was no point anymore. She was not stupid and his tongue was not fast enough.

"I didn't hide those wires very well, did I?"

"What am I doing? Look, you can stop buzzing around me now, OK? I'm not one of them anymore. I'm just your run of the mill barmaid."

He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She snatched it and dabbed the corner of her eye.

"I guess you and I have more in common than you might think."

She laughed sardonically, pouring herself another glass.

"Yeah, I'm sure we do."

Her bitterness didn't faze him, after all, she must have been going through a lot. Losing all of the closest people she had in one go couldn't have been an easy thing for anyone to handle. He was just glad he had no family or friends.

"I was kicked off this case a while ago," he spoke, almost to himself.

"Why should I believe anything you say?"

"I don't expect you to believe me, I just want you to know that-"

He was unable to continue, no longer wishing to tell her more than she needed to know right now.

She inhaled the cigarette smoke before it turned her stomach upside down. Quickly snuffing out the last specks of ember, she sat back down and hunched over the bar.

Rude rubbed his cheek again, adopting a brighter tone of voice in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood.

"I guess I should thank you for that slap. Smoking is terrible for your health. I just thought it would make me look a little cooler."

She chose not to reply, simply gazing at him with her head resting on her propped fist.

"It sounds really juvenile, I know, but I've been dreading this moment ever since I saw you the other day-"

"_The other day_," she interjected. "Who was I speaking to the other day? Was that you or was that just all fake?"

He placed his hand over hers, a daring move but a pivotal one. After counting backwards in his head, waiting for her to jerk back and insult him, he breathed heavily in relief as she remained static.

He noticed her eyes glancing down at their hands. She knew it was wrong but had forgotten how powerful the touch of another human being could be.

"That was all me, I can promise you that."

She tried desperately to move her hand but it remained on the counter, over the beer rings and the cold wood with his palm pressing over it transferring warmth between their skin.

"How much are your promises worth?"

"I can't make you believe me. Look, even if I had known you'd been kicked out of AVALANCHE, would I still be here right now? If you are officially out then you are useless to Shinra's investigation."

"So what are you doing here?"

"You may not find this very hard to believe but I find it difficult to make friends. It's hard for me to make connections with people I don't feel comfortable with. After we met, I can't even explain it. I just couldn't stop thinking about you."

She slowly began to regain the sensations in her fingers and wriggled them under his hand. He slowly lifted it for her to slide her arm off the counter down by her side. "

Is this some sort of joke?"

"I know it sounds weird-"

"Weird? It's insane!"

"Tell me, honestly," he replied, stealing her complete attention. "Do you really think it's going to be easy making new friends after the things your old friends have done to you? They used you, Tifa. They ate your food and drank your alcohol and spent their evenings in your basement, all of it free of charge. They endangered your life, not only with a set of explosives, but by also getting you on Shinra's terrorist alert database. I'm not trying to manipulate you in any way, I'm just telling you the truth. These people don't deserve your friendship."

"And you think _you_ do?"

"I'm the only person you can trust right now. I know that may be hard to believe, but it's true. I can keep Shinra off your back, hell, I can even sneak you out of the city if you want. I know how much you miss Nibelheim-"

"Stop that!" she boomed, extending an accusing finger. "Don't you ever pretend to know me just because you've invaded my privacy and routed through my past – it makes me sick."

"I'm sorry," he hushed her, holding her hand once more, lowering it to the table. "That was stupid of me. I know how perverse it sounds but I like the person I _think_ you are."

"Just get out," she sniffed, pouring herself another glass only to have the bottle snatched off her.

"Come on, I'll drive you back to your apartment."

"I can walk thank you very much," she retorted, clumsily routing through her bag for her keys.

Rude stood up and helped her to her feet.

"You're emotionally drained and drunk. It's not the best state for a woman like you to be in whilst walking around these streets at this hour."

She pushed him back in an extreme fit of anger.

"Get your filthy fucking hands off me!"

Her shriek sent pulses through the entire room and her torn voice reverberated off the walls, travelling to the core of his bones.

Feeling the humiliation burning through his chest, he nodded and dusted himself off.

"OK. Good night, Tifa." He opened the door, looking back at her once more. "I am truly sorry."

Hearing the thud as she dropped to her knees and began to sob only heightened the burning sensation in his chest, far worse than the cigarette smoke.

He stepped into his car and banged his fist against the steering wheel in fury.

"Ignorance is bliss," he whispered to himself, driving off into the night.


	9. Silence

**9**

**_Why do you think you feel so depressed?_**

_Isn't that your job to tell me?_

**_I'm a psychiatrist, not a psychic. You have to open up to me. You have to let me into your mind before I can analyse it._**

_..._

**_Is this the best you can do? Come on, Rude, I thought you wanted me to help you._**

_My taciturnity has helped me deal with a lot of problems over the years. It's part of my nature._

**_Well, I think it's very unhealthy. What would Reno--?_**

_Do we have to bring _him_ into every single discussion we have, doctor?_

**_He may not be at the very core of these problems but he's surely a pertinent factor. OK, look, how did you get on with the exercise I gave you at our last meeting?_**

_What exercise would that be?_

**_Do you enjoy being seen as unintelligent, Rude? 'Taciturnity' doesn't just have to be perceived as unsociable behaviour, you know? People may actually think you're just stupid._**

_And you don't understand how that benefits me? I thought you were best shrink in the city._

**_Fine, let me refresh your memory. Did you pick up any conversational tips by observing Reno? Did you learn anything?_**

_I learned that Reno is more likely to engage in a soliloquy than a conversation._

**_Rude, I can tell you that you have the wit of the most voluble men I've met, yet I sense you only feel safe expressing it to me. I'm guessing you feel looser with me because I have the capacity – no, wait – because it's my_ job_to make you feel better about yourself. _**

_Hmm. I guess the exercise paid off._

**_They don't call me the best shrink in the city for nothing._**

**_Tuesday, October 12th, 7:30pm _**– **_Nouritt Crescent, Upper Plate_**

Gorgeous, it may have been, but it had taken Rude long enough to realise how uncomfortable the hood of his car really was. Then again, the physical pain of a spine readjusting itself on bulletproof glass was far less excruciating than that of realising he was emulating the person he least wanted to be.

According to Reno, he should have adopted a less responsible nature and let time take him wherever it wanted. He mentioned buzzwords that egotistical jerks always used to make themselves sound superior in the light of another's period of dejection; words like _free_ and _spirit_ and _hooker_.

OK, the latter was unique to Reno, but it didn't stop the general feelings of malaise. His colleague was still joining that group of annoying bastards intent on giving everybody advice that often contradicted their own ways of life. After all, how could a man go on and on about freeing spirits when his own was trapped inside the rather _confined_ space of his penis?

He sipped at another beer can, feeling even worse as its weight decreased. Shaking the remaining drops at the bottom, he found the strength to throw the can over the edge, his lips unable to stop twitching towards a smile as the long delayed sound found its way back to his ears.

Hopefully it had landed on someone's head or possibly through a car windshield.

_That was harsh. Even for you_.

The little line of remorse had made it official – he was talking to himself again – although he could think of little else to do.

First, on the ever growing agenda, he had to stop blaming Reno because it was getting too mentally fatiguing to justify. In fact, if anything, the past two hours had been rather therapeutic, giving him ample time to organise the thoughts drifting through his mind like the low clouds over the horizon.

_Clouds_. Their sole purpose was to dispense rain and to provide a rather ugly, grey, demoralising cushion for Atlas' shoulders. They were perfect; blocking the sunshine in the sky and the intrinsic sunshine in his mind. The severity of a God's punishment could match no others, but why did the human race have to suffer along with him?

It wasn't the same today. The clouds saturating the panorama weren't as dull and demoralising as he had remembered growing up in the rainy little fisherman's town of Junon. They were wispy and white like freshly fallen snow, crawling against a brilliant blue backdrop. The more adventurous ones began to blend with junction of the sky and the ocean, refracting the sun's hidden rays like prisms of thin smoke. Reds and yellows dominated the tapestry of colours, blending with one another and the backdrop that began to grow darker with age.

Who knew something so ugly could become so beautiful when perceived from an altered angle?

_I will have to jot that down and tell it to Reno when the moment presents itself._

Yes, the view was beautiful, there was no denying it, but beautiful wasn't what he wanted right now. Beautiful had humiliated him. Beautiful had ruined his life on more than one occasion.

Beautiful was out to get him.

Rather fortunately, the view was beginning to fade to black. The ocean had disappeared a while ago, swallowed whole by the post-sunset darkness, followed by the rest of the chromatic world beneath him, a stark contrast to the politically and morally grey city of Midgar.

He shook his head and found another can in the trunk. Ignoring the toy pistol for the umpteenth time, he slumped over the railings and tried to see through the shadows. The dark landscape was simply a mental projection of the images in his mind; a blank, monotonous existence, speckled by blinking lights from neighbouring towns and ships.

Light represented all the good things in his life. Light represented happiness. Light represented inner peace that should not have looked this feeble against the inky milieu.

He stretched the muscles in his neck, preparing to gaze at the sky, thanking whoever it may concern for presenting him with something to look up to. Still, the sky offered no aid. It should have embodied the hope never seen, watching over him, waiting to donate some form of happiness.

_I've really got to stop feeling sorry for myself. Why am I getting so hung up over one woman? I barely know her. _

_No wonder I haven't had sex in four months._

He tried not to let the nipping wind get to him. Its whispers were persuading him to sit in the car with the heating on, but he wanted, no, he needed to brave it. He needed to keep some form of his masculinity intact. The suits, the shades and the guns no longer gave him a sense of power – after all, what was the point of them when a woman could leave him defenceless with just a flutter of her eyelids?

_I should have stayed with her yesterday. Who knows what could have happened? _

He gulped down the last of the beer, let the can slip out of his hand and stumbled back, tripping over his own feet, thanking the car that broke his fall.

Allowing the nausea to escape his body in the form of foul smelling vomit had helped to a certain extent. All that was left now was a slowly subsiding sense of sobriety.

He just hoped he had it in him to make it back to HQ in one piece.

**_Tuesday, October 12th, 10:21pm - Common Room, TURK HQ, Shinra Building_**

His head was still in the clouds but it had thankfully stopped spinning, allowing him to remember where he was. Trying not to drop to his knees, he entered the small common room, packed to the brim with bored killers hunting for spare change for the pool tables.

He made his way through the jittery and somewhat distorted images of well dressed people, clamping a hand over one ear to protect it from the blaring noise emanating from a nearby television, and soon found the object he had been searching for. The red hair should have been enough to generate a general, if not accurate, coordinate, but the alcohol was in no mood to let him use his intellect, or his common sense for that matter.

The sight of him there – quivering, hugging his knees, rocking back and forth like a rape victim – it was enough to sober him far better than a jug full of black coffee.

Looking back at nameless faces and faceless names, he patted his colleague's shoulder. Reno gave a start as though electrocuted and took his time to eyeball the bald tower before him.

"So much for Turk loyalty," Rude uttered, intentionally nudging an agent mid-shot at one of the pool tables. Before taking a seat besides Reno, he called out, "Has anyone asked why this poor bastard is shivering?"

The general din around him failed to change in any way, forcing him to ignore them in return. Taking a seat, he rubbed the corners of his eyes under his shades and wondered which approach to take.

He reached out to pat his back. Then he halted in a moment of embarrassment. Then he reached out again and slowly placed his palm over the sweat laden patch of shirt roughly occupying the small of his back.

He was appropriately startled as Reno began to speak.

"Y-you don't get it, Rude," he began, quivering even more. "You know when you're a kid and everything just seems to happen without question? The stork came by from a magical land and dropped me on my parents' doorstep. God exists and created everything, including me, my parents and the stork that delivered me. Santa Claus lives in Lapland and visits every house on the planet in one night, dishing out presents that his elves created."

"Um...?"

He turned back to Rude with hyperactive eyes bouncing within their sockets.

"I never questioned it as a child. How the fuck can one lard-ass visit every single house on the globe in one day? No wait! He only comes at night. That's twelve hours! Why did we never question that? Why do we love this character that excludes himself from society and uses elves as damn slave labour? Is it just a coincidence that the children aren't allowed to see him or is it because his probation officer won't allow him near anyone under the age of eighteen?"

"Reno..."

He stopped to think.

_I've said 'Reno'... right, uh... next word..._

Reno began to sway from side to side as he rocked; now moving in a circular motion like a cobra under a snake charmer's spell.

"Our parents should just tell us Santa isn't real. What's the deal with lying to a child and then breaking his heart when he gets to that magical age of maturity?"

"A life without Santa broke your heart?" he asked, trying not to light the fuse of what could potentially be a lethal bomb.

"This isn't about Santa-fucking-Claus, Rude!"

_Should I make this quicker and just get myself a box of matches?_

Glancing around the room to search for a response had proven to be rather useless. He simply began by gritting his teeth and racking his brain for spare words that would bond and form a sentence. It had to be coherent. That was the bare minimum requirement. Sentences that actually helped Reno's situation however would only come with years of practice.

"You're not on drugs are you?"

_That wasn't so bad after all._

"Up until now I've always thought I was a superhero, man. I thought I was blessed with the ability to do anything I wanted. I mean, I've got everything going great for me, y' know? Think about it. I'm young, white and a man. That's three advantages so far. I'm sexy, I'm intelligent, I'm athletic – are you counting?"

Rude held up six fingers and spoke, "Hardly super powers though."

"OK, but what about my powers of seduction? I can have any woman I want at the click of a finger!"

"What?"

"Just watch." He nodded at a passing female agent and winked. "Hey baby, you wanna go out some time?"

"Get bent," she responded, not even choosing to look at him.

It took a little time to pass through his dense skull, but when it did, it forced him to splash his palms over his face and weep.

Watching a grown man weep was awkward enough, but when said man was Reno... well, Rude couldn't quite put his finger on an accurate enough description.

He patted his back once more as he tried to ignore the awkward sniffles and snorts. It wasn't fair. He had come here to get advice. He had completed the first stage: getting drunk with some alone time at high altitude in cold weather. Now, the second and final stage was all that was standing between him and freedom over guilt, and unfortunately, Reno had not chosen to disclose information about it.

Still, the weight on his shoulders did not compare to Atlas'. At least he had it better off than _someone_.

"Look, you remember what always cheers you up when you feel like shit?"

He heard a muffled '_Go to a strip club_', caught between sobs and fingers secured tightly over his face.

"I've had a few drinks but I'm in much better condition than you to drive," Rude said, lifting Reno's arm over his shoulder as they pushed and shoved their way out of the common room.

"Can we get private lap dancers? And Ice cream?"

_This is going to be a long fucking night._

It had taken a fraction of his estimated time to exit the building because he had forgotten how light his partner was. The last time he had carried Reno over his shoulder like this had been at least seven or eight years ago, back when they were both cadets at the academy. At the time Reno had contested to strengthen his teenage liver by imbibing as much liquor as he could swipe from the older cadets' lockers.

There was no room for a backseat, let alone dignity, so he threw his partner on the passenger seat like a sack of potatoes, biting his tongue instead of explaining that he did not need to call shotgun.

He drove in relative silence, the sound of a blinking indicator often the only thing that dared break it. It would only be a matter of time before Reno's courage grew to match the indicator.

"You see that antique store over there?"

Rude looked over his shoulder and nodded.

"My granddad used to visit that shop every day to chat to the old man that owns it. He liked to just relax with his war veteran buddy, smoking their pipes and badmouthing the government."

"That's... uh... nice," he replied, not sure why the anticipation of seeing naked women was not transforming him into an over-excited puppy. Then again, he should have been thankful he was beginning to speak without stammering and even more thankful that Reno's choice of conversation actually seemed to be quite civilised.

Then it dawned on him.

_Civilised conversation? He's slipping farther and farther away!_

He pressed his foot against the accelerator, hoping a little nudity would go a long way.

"I used to love my granddad. He would always secretly buy me and my sister chocolates when our parents weren't around and he would sit patiently with me every day as I drew random pictures and explained what all the strange pencil scratchings represented. He made it seem as though he was interested, too, always pointing out the drawings he liked best, sticking them on the wall.

"When it was night, the family used to sit outside in the starlight. It never got too cold in Mideel and we, along with most others at that time, didn't have the luxury of television sets to shut us all up. So we would talk ourselves to sleep under the blanket of stars.

"I always wanted to sit with my granddad and draw when it was late, but he never said no to me. He used to let me down gently by wandering into his room and wandering back out again with a pad, saying '_Sorry sonny, I could find the pad but I couldn't find the pen. Maybe tomorrow, eh_?' Sometimes he'd _struggle_ to find the pad instead of the pen to introduce a little variation and, as always, I'd believe him."

He slouched and rested his head against the window, watching neon blurs whizz past at forty miles per hour.

"I thought my granddad was the nicest person in the universe, y' know? Man... I was just six when he died and it hit me hard. But I managed to pull through because I knew he was going to heaven for sure, probably on a first class cloud," he laughed. It was a bitter sound, but also oddly heart-warming. "I didn't realise that all grandparents shower their grandkids with unconditional love. I mean, my parents couldn't give a shit about me, so it was a little hard to develop a sense of something like that.

"When you're that young you just don't question things like that... you don't question things like Santa, or the stork or unconditional love."

He had been listening attentively for the past few minutes, keeping at least one eye on the road. After enough silence had redistributed itself in the car, he responded with, "You sure you're OK, Reno? We can do something else if you--"

"When I was twelve I learned that my grandfather had served time in prison for raping an innocent woman around fifty years ago."

The silence thickened and froze around his lips like ice. He had never known Reno to harbour such deep emotional problems, adding a somewhat terrifying new dimension to the man he had known and now the man he hadn't known for over a decade.

Not allowing the stinging words to sink in, he continued. "What do you make of that, Rude? Isn't it funny how a lifelong perception can change with nothing more than a four letter word? Isn't it funny how something so beautiful can appear so ugly when viewed from a slightly different angle?"

He stopped the car and sat back, the hot air mixing with the ever freezing silence on his lips, soon reaching absolute zero. "Seriously, what's going on?"

He had been waiting to say this for a while now, but the build up had been worth it. Sitting up comfortably, he faced his partner in a state of utter solemnity.

"My perception of people always remains the same until something valid can change it. But this Tifa person... she's fucking with my head and not in a good way." He shuffled closer to Rude, the insanity soon bouncing around his eyeballs again. "This unstable perception is really bothering me because I can't define it. I don't understand it. I just can't figure out if I like her or if I hate her and I really don't get why I can't stop thinking about her."

"I'm sure you'll get over..."

"She was six foot. She was blonde. She had a rack like two pillows stuffed under her blouse. She had legs that took forever to end up to her cute little ass. She had soft lips and a sweet voice. She was..."

"...The one?" he whispered, trying to sigh without sounding sarcastic.

His watery eyes turned back to his window. "Yup... the fucking one. I saw what could only be described as a coke-snorting angel yesterday. In fact I did more than just see, my friend. I'm telling you, when she got down on her knees and..."

"Spare me the details, please," Rude interjected with a palm in the air.

"... I... well, I got nothin'"

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't make me spell it out... I beg of you..."

*

_I've been reading a lot more mythological tales_ recently._ I think my favourite is the story of Atlas._

_**He's a God but he still has the burden of the infinite sky on his shoulders. It's enough to show you that even the powerful have problems.**_

_I recently discovered that for myself..._

_**You mind letting me in on the joke? Something must be awfully funny to make**_** you **_**smile!**_

_Ignore that. It's such a nuisance._

_**What? Something that makes you laugh surely can't be a nuisance. Come on, out with it. I'm beginning to think this joke is directed at me.**_

_It's not you... it's someone else... _

**_Well, as long as there is something or someone out there that can penetrate that _**_**icy exterior of yours.**_

_I doubt this someone will ever be able to penetrate anything ever again._

_**OK, now you definitely have to explain.**_

_Don't worry about it. It's just an inside joke._

_**An inside joke between who?**_

_Me and the little man in my head guarding my sense of humour. He's quite funny once you get to know him._

_**Cute. OK, moving on. If you had to describe yourself in one word, what would it be?**_

_Is this a new game we're playing?_

_**The only thing worse than cynicism is sarcasm, Rude.**_

_Listen, I'm not obligated to believe your opinions just because you have a few framed certificates on the wall. _

_**Ouch. Would you mind elaborating? But do it quietly. The framed certificates will lose their value if they find you explaining something to me.  
**_

_..._

_**That's what I thought.**_

_Alright, there's no need to gloat._

_**Joking aside, please explain.**_

_I'm not too arrogant to know when I'm wrong, OK? I guess... sarcasm only gets those of a lower intellect anywhere._

_**You don't think your intellect is a burden, do you?**_

_Sometimes. I can't stop my mind from wandering._

_**There's nothing wrong with a free mind.**_

_I know. It's not the wandering that bothers me. It's the fact that no matter how far it wanders, it can't lose sight of that ugly shrouding... _

**_Conscience?_**

_..._

_**There's nothing wrong with that either, Rude. In fact, that's the only reason I respect you more than all of the other brainless murderers you call colleagues.**_

...

_**Are you OK?**_

_I just don't understand why this onslaught occurred so suddenly._

_**Onslaught? Are you saying you feel happier without a conscience?**_

_No, I'm saying I felt _nothing _before._

_**Feeling bad is a lot better than feeling nothing at all. How else can you achieve happiness if you don't know what makes you feel down?**_

_I don't pay you to give me your opinions, Doc._

_**I get paid by your employer and that wasn't an opinion.**_

_You know what, I don't think..._

**_Before you lose your temper and storm out of here I want you to confront your problems, not just to lose that bad feeling you've had in the pit of your stomach. You should do it to replace it with a good feeling._**

_**Talk to her. Try to understand how she feels and connect with her. **_

_And if that doesn't work?_

_**I get a new certificate for every correct opinion, OK? Just trust me on this one.**_

...

**_Before you ask, it doesn't take a genius to figure out you've got woman problems._**

_It took me long enough to figure it out._

_**I guess that intellect should no longer be too much of a burden then...**_

_**

* * *

**_**A/N**

Sorry this took so long. Been crazy busy over the past few weeks. I've actually had this thing written for a while but I couldn't quite get the ending right. Now I have and I'm glad it's over with. The next chapter may take the same amount of time to upload cos I got lots to do but thanks in advance for those who will review and give me joy joy in my belly.

I wanted Tifa in this chapter because it's short and I haven't written her in a while and I miss her. But I loved the ending so much I didn't want to write any more.

Peace out.

**_aardy. _**


	10. Smile

**10**

**_Wednesday, October 13th, 8:18am – Tifa's Seventh Heaven_**

The place had never looked bigger.

Walls were expanding away from her, converging at infinity, every brick scraping against dry concrete, chipping and cracking to produce a surface more welcome in the unchartered bowels of the Mythril Mines.

A marriage of depression and drapes produced rather ugly offspring in the form of darkness, silence and fear. They were more than an expression of hurt or the monthly four days of bitterness she would experience when she was old enough. She would have likened them to obscenities in a foreign language; something she could understand yet didn't know the meaning of.

Nobody, not now or in a million years, would be able to unlock the potential a young mind has to offer. The few that come close are often isolated from the current dystopia of Midgar, their wise words floating through fresh air besmirched by campfire smoke and the scent of blood in the most rural of places. Words that express the purity of young minds.

It is believed that these intangible objects are less like sponges and more like sieves. They do not absorb information but lose it as time passes. Innocence is the key to purity, but modern urban life pollutes the mind and degrades it, allowing it to percolate away, becoming defenceless against the entrancing prospect of wealth and power.

Her mind was still pure enough to dispense the required courage to pry open the splintered seal to this fortress of suffering, being warned not to several times by many a grown-up. But, to put it in a way they could understand, she simply didn't care. She didn't care what Auntie Jess had said about giving Tifa some time to be alone because she knew loneliness was the last thing _she_ would ever want at such a sad time. She didn't care what Uncle Biggs had said about not talking to, or _pestering_ as he had put it, Tifa at this time either.

She did, however, listen to what Uncle Wedge had said about smiling when she saw her.

_Remember, Marlene. A smile goes a long way._

Daddy on the other hand hadn't said anything. Not a word.

"Teef?"

There was no response.

Progressing towards the bar jutting above her from the floor, caked in the dirt of a thousand shoes, she stood on the very tips of her toes, just able to place her nose over the counter. With eyes bouncing from one side of her head to the other, she scanned Tifa's nocturnal domain, finding the patches of wood worn away by the oil from the skin of her elbows, always propped on them as she gazed into the future.

The illustrious chequered tablecloth was present, obediently waiting for its owner to drag its limp body over the thin film of alcohol magnetically attracted to the tabletops and counters. The uncomfortable stool that was far too tall for her to sit on was there, too, motionless in the shadows, casting even more off in the distance under shelves stacked with bottles of all size, shape and colour. The artistic beverage containers had been arranged in a somewhat organised mess that looked oddly beautiful with the aid of cosmetic slivers of neon light cutting through gaps in the drapes.

She knew never to touch them, but that just made them all the more intriguing.

As the smell of old wood and alcohol began to make her dizzy, she dropped back down to her heels and searched the rest of the deserted wasteland.

It was truly amazing how the lack of a few pieces of furniture could transform a room into an area of increased dimensions; a couch here, a table there, a shelf somewhere else. When they were gone, the room would often feel empty and cold as though an aspect of its personality had been stripped away.

The analogy worked just as well with people. She often came here in the evenings noticing the markedly different atmosphere from the one she would leave on her way to school. The noises alone were enough to fill the bar with exuberance and character; laughter, chatter, music, chairs scraping against the floor, cutlery clinking together. But when it was all gone it would take little time to realise the soul of the room had gone with it.

The reciprocality of the soul of the bar and the soul within herself was astonishingly obvious. And so, she had to prove to Tifa that the bar within her heart wasn't as empty as she thought. After all, it only took one person and only one object to restore a room's character.

"Tifa? Are you here? You said you'd take me to school today."

She had considered calling her Auntie once or twice like she did with Jess, but it felt wrong and out of place. Tifa was more of a big sister than anything. An Auntie is someone who tries to reason with you when you run away from home after an argument with your parents, someone who gives you money on your birthday and someone you respect. A sister is someone who understands your problems, someone who gives you gifts that come from the heart rather than the wallet and someone you love.

She still loved Jessie but couldn't connect with her in the same way. They often told each other that they were just two peas in completely separate pods – or one of them was a pea and the other was a bean – or one of them was a pea and the other was any organic material that was the exact opposite of a pea, an anti-pea perhaps.

Such a strong comment was always taken with a pinch of salt by both parties. There was just no room for science and technology to mix with magic and imagination. Well, not in their minds anyway.

"Uncle Biggs said you weren't home so I came here instead. I hope that's OK. Tifa! Are you here?"

She pondered for a moment, staring back at the darkness behind her fighting with artificial lights and the sounds of the city pouring in through the door left ajar. Something looked odd and a little too coincidental for her to ignore, dropping another mushroom cloud of curiosity in the atmosphere.

She took a few steps around, scratching her head as though completely perplexed. Something was different. Something was missing. Some object had been removed from the area that somehow had changed its entire aura.

"Marlene?"

The heels of her shoes squeaked as they swivelled on the spot, allowing her to face a rather tired expression. A night of wrestling with a pillow had left the bar's proprietress with the considerably lethal condition of bed-head, the stray hairs hiding her eyes and the heavy bags underneath them.

"Hey, Teef. You ready to take me to school?" she said cheerily, the smile Wedge had told her to wear going unforgotten.

"Do I look ready?" she croaked, rubbing her eyes with the sleeves of her purple jammies.

Marlene giggled and rushed over to wrap her arms around Tifa's waist.

"Hey. What's the hug for, little missy?"

"I just though that a little hug could do you some good."

She wheezed in mock asphyxiation, splaying her fingers through the chestnut hair atop Marlene's head.

"A _little_ hug? You've got the squeeze of a Midgar Zolom!"

The young girl's eyes were warmer than her tight hug. As intangible as it was, her innocence found a form, swimming through her large brown irises.

"It's OK if you wanna talk, Teef. I don't know what's going on with you and the rest of the gang but you'll always have me."

"I know, kiddo," she replied, affectionately tapping Marlene's button nose. "Don't you worry about me. I'll be right as rain in no time."

"Promise?"

"_Promise_."

_There_ was a word she wasn't fond of. Although it sounded beautiful to those of which her language had no meaning, it was an expression of hope and honesty that hardly amounted to anything nowadays. Its good name had been tarnished by something far too bitter to be expressed in the form of a word, regardless of which tongue wished to use it. No, promises were just lies sprinkled with sugar. They were just a vehicle for false hope to deliver its pain to the innocent.

And if there was anyone in the world that she didn't want to lie to, it was Marlene.

Applying a brave face, she brushed her hair back with her palm and hurried back into her makeshift bedroom. A mattress she had ordered Biggs to fetch here six months ago for instances when she was too tired to walk home, a few old pillows and a thick blanket had given her enough opportunity to fall asleep. Of course, sleeping so close to the ground had been difficult at first but the adjustment did not take as long as her prior estimate.

"Just let me get my clothes on and we'll set off."

A faint _OK _carried its way through the hallway.

The mattress caught the corner of her eye, an object lying in the dirt with lacerations here and there, exposing its innards like a dying soldier on the battlefield. It was the sole furnishing the room owned besides the laptop, minding its own business as it recharged from the dangerous sockets.

E-mails were always so impersonal; at least that's what she thought up until last night. Voices through telephone speakers were always distorted towards the robotic, but there was still more than enough humanity to go around. And even though they could remove a person's recognisability they never removed their emotions.

It seemed silly that she required every sentence uttered in her general direction to be accompanied with the perfect amount of sentiment, but, as she would often verbalise, she simply wasn't good at picking up on these things unaided. She found it difficult to know whether someone was happy if they weren't smiling and found it difficult to know if someone was sad if there weren't any tears in their eyes.

Maybe it was because she had always worn her heart on her sleeve and let her emotions represent more than they ever should.

Grabbing a comb from the windowsill, she dragged it through tangled clumps of hair with a fair amount of force, the pain innervating a release of tears.

"See, Tifa," she spoke aloud to herself. "Tears don't always mean people are upset."

_Yeah, you keep telling yourself that._

Handwritten letters were her preferred method of conversing with another soul. Every arch and curl of an alphabetic unit could represent any emotion and even those in between. Each word could be thought out for hours before applying pen to paper, each syllable measured to perfection.

In the right hands, a pen truly was mightier than the sword.

Of course, nobody had the time for handwritten letters anymore. Every single person around her had become martyrs of communication, simply to save time, and although time was precious, too, it had a far less profound effect on her. She didn't even have an e-mail address until a few weeks ago when Jessie had coerced her into creating one.

Sending an e-mail or two to Marlene helped her to grasp the basics, soon confidently enabling her to send one to Reno, embarking on a long journey of dirty-talk armed with a new arsenal of what could only be described as a teenager's vernacular. A night of chatting with him online had really taught her a few more things about this method of communication. She found that her giggling at Reno's comments transcended every step of evolution to become full blown belly-laughs. The emotions expressed from his small rows of Microsoft Sans Serif were even more evident than anything he could ever say to her face. With the physical barrier of a computer on her lap, she felt her inhibitions floating out of her head. The real Tifa, a more raw form of the emotionally fragile woman, was laying her cards on the table, or in this case her keyboard, and made it all seem worthwhile.

Waltzing back of the bedroom fully clothed and groomed, she rushed over to the drapes and yanked them apart, the pale light splashing over everything it could get its hands on. The youngster was so deprived of inspiration, especially when she inadvertently dished so much of it out. She had to get over this. For _her_.

"It's morning. The sun is probably out and I'm guessing it's a beautiful day somewhere, right, Marlene?"

"Right," she said, the forced smile replaced with a genuine one.

"You ready to go to school?"

"_Do I look ready_?" she responded, mimicking Tifa's morning grumpiness.

"Come here, cheeky," she chuckled, lifting her off the ground and carrying her around the room.

Laughter made a welcome change and filled the room, leading the way to the birth of its newest soul.

"Hey, Teef," she giggled, slumped over the proprietress' shoulder. "Did you do something to this room? For some odd reason it feels different."

"Uh, I don't think so," she replied, placing her back down again before grabbing her keys and opening the door.

"Hmm..."

Leaving hand in hand the two jumped on the slabs of concrete protruding from the dry soil dominating her back yard, passing the trash can with a hunk of dented brass emerging from a cylinder of garbage.

Marlene craned her neck to gaze at her _big sister_.

"You know, I never liked those scales either."

**_Thursday, October 14th, 3:53pm – Moers Road, Upper Plate_**

"It's forgotten. I swear to God, I've put it to the back of my mind, you hearing me?"

Rude nodded, prodding a potato wedge with a tiny blue fork, walking along the embankment with one foot on the edge of the slightly elevated pavement and the other on the edge of the road. The fun of walking in this lopsided manner would always make itself apparent when the elevation melted down to road level at zebra crossings for cyclists and pedestrians confined to wheelchairs.

It was funny how he only ever noticed things when they weren't there to be noticed.

"I'm telling you, bro," he continued, "I will not let this get the better of me." He lifted his fork bearing hand and pressed the back of it against his partner's rather wide chest. "And before you say it, I don't need to see a doctor. I don't need cold fingers probing my delicate areas, no matter how skilled the diagnostician."

"Actually, I wasn't going to say that."

"Oh, yeah?" Reno asked, a smile slowly revealing itself. He had only said '_And before you say anything_' as an expression, the idea of Rude actually having a response waiting seeming utterly farfetched. Of course, he should have been used to the laconic quips and one-liners by now, but in all honesty, he didn't have the energy to stop talking and actually listen for once. "Go for it."

"I was simply going to ask why a blaspheming little S.O.B. like yourself would ever _swear to God_."

"Trust you to take everything I say literally."

"Oh," he responded, screwing up the now greasy newspapers that had acted as his plate. "Which metaphorical God were you talking about?"

"They're all metaphorical."

"I see. Your evil vicar of a father wouldn't have anything to do with this loathing of all things holy, would he?"

Reno wolfed down the last of his potato wedges and threw the newspapers behind a bus shelter, licking his fingers before he said, "My father wasn't a vicar. He was a priest, a Catholic priest."

"OK, wait. Aren't Catholic priest's supposed to be celibate?"

"My dad has a weak mind. He's susceptible to being brainwashed by anyone and the first one that got to him was the motherfucking clergy. He converted then became a priest after he got divorced and lost thirty grand in the Gold Saucer."

"So, what's the big deal?"

"_So_, _what's the big deal_? Alright, what's the difference between acne and a Catholic priest?"

Rude shrugged his shoulders.

Reno cocked his neck from side to side like a hungry pigeon to check for eavesdroppers before grabbing Rude's newspapers to stuff them in a nearby mailbox.

"Get this. Acne doesn't come on a boy's face until after he hits puberty."

"Ouch."

"I know. I had to endure jokes like that my entire childhood. I mean, a boy needs a strong male role model as he grows up, y'know? Not a possible paedophile that warns you not to have sex before marriage because he thinks you'll go to hell and get prodded up the jacksie by some red guy's pitchfork."

"Ah. Do you ever think this lack of a strong male role model ever had a lasting impression on you? You think how you behave with women stems from this?"

Reno cast a suspicious eye on his partner.

"Maybe."

"And do you think the way you behave with women may be creating some kind of overriding guilt that corresponds to your erectile dysfunc...mmm... mmmm."

Reno removed his palm from Rude's mouth when he felt the danger had passed.

"Would you keep the fucking volume down!" he spat, furiously. "Jesus, it sounds like you've had one too many a session with that head shrink."

Rude couldn't help but smirk as he straightened the lapels of his jacket and waited for Reno to continue walking.

Cold wind began to lick their skins as they continued on down the road, a vital proclamation of oncoming rain. It induced a little more pace into their steps.

"So," Reno said, showing a fervent hatred of being on _this _side of humiliation. "Are you enjoying your little vacation? Sounds like Tseng's trying to put some distance between you and Lockhart. Actually, it sounds like he's prepping you for some early retirement. You can't be a stone cold killer if you've got mushy feelings for some chick, especially a chick connected to a case, especially a case as high profile as this one."

He didn't respond. He didn't want to give Reno the satisfaction of doing so.

"Not talkin', huh? Well that's typical. You know, I think I'm gonna take some time off once this case is over – that is if I can ever get anything out of her. I'm just wondering whether Tseng will pull the plug on the whole operation now that Heidegger leaked our classified info. I bet they won't even find out. I'd put good money on the idea that their overgrown testicles make it difficult to squeeze through doorways, so even the most groundbreaking news story will take its time to get to them. I mean, lets face it, you've gotta have a hefty pair of cahonas to take on Shinra-"

"She knows," he interjected hesitantly.

They were nothing more than two common words, two words that could have been used in a million different sentences to mean a million different things. But simply put together, they conveyed something far more significant than anything either of them had ever heard in a long time.

Reno stopped abruptly. His jaw hung low before he gulped down the saliva accumulating in his mouth and forcibly clamped it shut with his hand.

"When the fuck did this happen... and just when the fuck were you gonna plan on telling me?"

He wrapped his jacket a little tighter over his body, suddenly feeling the cold wind, aided by Reno's cold tone of voice.

"To my knowledge it was a few days ago, but I don't honestly know how long she's known about me."

"_You_? She knows about you? She doesn't know jackshit about me though, right?"

"Don't you think it's only a matter of time before she does?"

Reno, brushed past his partner and continued to walk to his car, an object that seemed to be parked an extra infinitely large distance away than from the one in his memory.

"I honestly don't think she has the brain power to connect a child's dot-to-dot, let alone us two-" he said, stopping as thick fingers wrapped themselves around his arm with all the force of a mechanical vice. He looked back at his own reflection through Rude's shades and shook his head. "What's your problem?"

"I've had about enough of your snarky little comments. Stop talking that way about her."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he chuckled sardonically, wriggling free from his captor's grip. "I didn't mean to offend you. Honestly though, you're girlfriend has the IQ of a lamppost."

He could taste his own blood before he felt the fist striking his jaw. Falling to the floor, Reno cradled his face and groaned in agony. He rolled on his back, squinting as shafts of brilliant light pierced the clouds, and laughed, displaying a gruesome bloody smile. Before Rude could step over him and walk away he called out, impeded by a mixture of blood and saliva.

"I'm guessing Tseng doesn't know about this."

He stopped, choosing not to turn back and face the pathetic sight on the floor.

"You tell him and I swear I'll-"

"What? You're gonna hit me again? Go for it, baby. I think in some sick and perverted way I enjoyed it."

"This isn't about you and me anymore, Reno," he said, taking off his shades to massage his forehead. "Try to think about someone other than the sick fuck staring back at you through the mirror. She doesn't deserve to die."

Reno stood and dusted himself off. He coughed violently and spat out a globule of green slime that any forty-a-day-smoker would have been proud of.

"I don't give a shit. I'm just doing my job, and before you say it, I don't care if it makes me the bad guy." He stood to face his partner and tapped his temple. "In my head, I'm doing the right thing. I could bust into Santa's workshop, murder all of his elves and still believe I was doing the right thing because I've been programmed that way. Isn't that how murderers and suicide bombers justify their actions?" He moved his head within inches of Rude's. "How about people who want to put explosives in Mako Reactors? How do they justify it, huh?

"Don't tell me this woman is all innocent just because she's got a pretty smile and a sweet demeanour. I know it took me this long to figure it out, but that unstable perception was a lot easier to define when I focussed on her bad qualities instead of trying desperately to find the good ones. Yeah, she's cute and sweet, but how can someone so cute and sweet also be a murderer? Look at me. I'm selfish and sleazy and arrogant – the fact that I'm also a killer seems to make perfect sense. Look at you. You're stoic and aggressive and cold. The prospect of ending another person's life should have that effect on you. It's a healthy reaction to an unhealthy occupation.

"Deep down inside, she's just as bad as we are. She's a bad guy. She's a villain. She's a vulture, just like us, yo."

Rude placed his shades back over his eyes, found a handkerchief in his pocket and threw it at Reno.

"Wipe yourself off," he said, violently brushing past him one last time.

**_Thursday, October 14th, 4:14pm – Midgar Train Station, Upper Plate_**

He had seen it in the movies more times than he cared to remember. It was a neat little post-edit trick that always produced the same feeling of subdued awe; the world spinning by in doubled speed, almost reducing them to hazy blurs as the main protagonist meandered through them in a slow pace with a pathetic expression plastered on his or her face. It isolated the character from the rest of the world.

His world was not a movie, even though he felt isolated with the burdens of any lead role, and he was no protagonist either. Nor was he the bad guy. He was just the guy stuck in the middle – the soul sandwiched between good and bad, between right and wrong, between his colleague and his... what was the right word? Lover? Friend? She was neither and yet he was still willing to risk his career and even his life in pursuit of happiness for the nagging little organ in his chest, beating away silently, the rest of his body spinning by in doubled speed.

The movie effects had stopped just in time for the train to come to a screeching halt by the platform, the sea of humans around him providing a current to travel through without having to consciously move his limbs.

Herded into the nearest cabin, he found a spare seat besides a businessman hiding behind a broadsheet. Who knew what face hid behind the paper barrier? What story did it have to tell? Was the world spinning by him, too?

He looked blankly at the passengers ahead of him, paying no attention to the masses of drones cramming into the tube. They didn't bother him, even though they continually stared at him through narrowed eyelids, suspecting him of something - anything.

He was in no mood to satisfy their curiosity by moving. He was too busy thinking about the past twenty minutes. The sight of Reno's blood was not uncommon, bringing him back to the days of scooping him off the ground after a drunken brawl or three. But to actually be the cause of it was a completely different matter indeed.

Was it bad of him to enjoy striking his best friend? Well, Reno's smug attitude hardly made it easy to feel sorry for him, but there was still something bothering him about the way he ended the argument. It was hardly mature of him.

The train jolted as it accelerated out of the station on its way through a downward spiral into the murky depths of the slums. The butterflies were common at this part of the journey, but his were born from a different set of consequences.

Fear. Anxiety. Trepidation.

Dr. Kauffman would have a field day.

He continued to replay the argument in his mind. Reno had said it himself; stoic, menacing and cold. They were apparently by-products of his evil occupation, yet if he was supposed to be the good guy, why did he miss those things so much?

_Hmm, it's true. I only ever notice what I have when it's gone. _

_I only ever notice things until they've gone?_

_Jake._

Where had Jake's memory gone in all this time?

The train suddenly submerged in icy shadows as it descended below, lower and lower into the garbage heap of a city. Smells overpowering those of the passengers made their way through jagged apertures in windows and the crackling sound of fire caught his ears even before he could see the spears of oranges and yellows licking the dirty air from empty trash cans.

"Sector Five!" a hoarse voice cried over the tannoy.

He closed his eyes and ignored the impulses from his ears and his nose and concentrated. He dove into the waters of his mind from inexplicable heights to the very depths. Although the surface of the water appeared crystal clear, reflecting the sun's light, shimmering pleasantly in a pastel shade of turquoise, the bed was formed by jagged rocks, protuberant shards of glass and a layer of inky blood.

These were the only memories he had left. Murder victims and the methods he used to end their lives. The guilt, a faceless monster, could always be repressed with aid of special training. But recently, eyes developed; blood red with pupils like yawning chasms. A nose sprouted too, ugly and bent with flared nostrils. Soon after, crooked ivory pegs shot from bloody gums.

Yes, the monster now had a face.

"Sector Six! The next stop is Sector Six!"

All he could do now was think of _her_ face. She was the light at the surface, his sun that shone down on the water and allowed it to shimmer, even the sky that reflected its pastel turquoise sanguinity. She saved him in his realm of dreams, and although at first it seemed odd that the alpha male status he had developed over the years meant nothing in this somewhat upside-down world, he relaxed his muscles, unclenched his fists and let her innocence fight away all the malevolence in his head. She had become his saviour - a position that had once been strictly reserved for Jake alone.

He didn't need to think too hard. Tifa wasn't a vulture. He was a bad person, for what he done to others, for what he had done to his son and most of all for what he had done to himself. But if she could conjure up the same enlightening emotions as the single most important person in his life then she was surely worth fighting for.

"Sector Seven!"

He opened his eyes, noticing everyone else had lost interest in him, and stood up, brushing his way through throngs of commuters. After feeling the toy pistol tucked in his belt with the tips of his fingers, he jumped off the train and began to walk over the cobbles of Sector Seven.

He had said it himself; _the most important person in my life_.

It was time to stop hiding from the deeper end of the water. If he truly was the protagonist, he would simply have to deal with his problems.

Hopefully with Tifa's help, he wouldn't have to deal with them alone.

**_Thursday, October 14th, 4:29pm – Dean Street, Sector Seven_**

The soil crunched underfoot as he marched silently with all the purpose of an off-duty soldier fatigued by the prospect of a personal vendetta that had gone unsettled for too long. The street he walked through, he would have noticed had he not been so preoccupied, contained more than its fair share of workshops. Rags soaked in turpentine hung from doorframes, saturating the air with a far less pungent odour. Their proximity to the sparks flying from saws grinding against metal didn't seem to bother anyone else, much less himself.

He travelled through black smoke and oil clouds. He travelled through diesel fumes and neon lights. He travelled though crystal clear waters that transformed into a brackish, wild sea. Black waves were crashing in his stomach. The storm was raging in his mind. The fear within his heart was creating cloud after cloud, each blacker than last, covering the moon and blocking its waxy pool of light.

He gulped as he passed the school, wrapping his coat even tighter still over his chest. It provided a medium for his heartbeat to speak through. He felt every last thud vibrating his entire body.

Children were still tailing adults leaning heavily on pushchairs as they conversed with one another, the last few leaving the school gates rushing up to their respective parents to be hugged and smothered with love. They sang and chirped happily. Some even skipped. If the demoralising world they lived in couldn't kill their spirits, nothing could.

Reducing his pace to a slow amble, he looked at the bright faces around him. These loud, irritating creatures gave people the hope Jake had once given him. These tiny humans were responsible for so much joy to so many people. So why was he so terrified?

_Man, I'm pathetic._

He had considered stopping and turning back, but the slightly blurry image of a boy slumped on a set of concrete steps squeezed at his heart, rendering him immobile. He could feel his lungs expanding within his chest as the ethereal force began to draw him closer like an errant breeze directed by the jerky hand of fate.

He wished he could stop his heart from thumping so violently – a wish that was soon granted, stopping for a second or two as his son had spotted him and began to stare like a deer in headlights, the innocence he had been blessed with pouring through his tear ducts. They weren't tears of joy though and Rude knew it.

They were tears of fear.

_My own son fears me. What kind of monster am I?_

He took one step forward, inducing electricity into the boy's muscles, enabling him to jump off the steps and run back into the house as fast as possible.

He could hear the door slamming from such a large distance above the calls of street vendors and the high pitched warbles of school-kids. He could feel the door slamming in his heart.

_This was a stupid idea._

He felt for the toy gun, removed it, carefully looked at it and finally dropped into the flowing sludge in an open sewer.

_The sight of my face sent him running, what would the sight of this gun do? Could I be any more of an idiot?_

He huddled under his collar and braved the walk back to the train station pushing everything to the back of his mind. It was only until he felt the fresh air of the upper plate seeping through his fingers did he hear the saws grinding against metal and smell the turpentine floating through the acrid air.

**_Thursday, October 14th, 5:07pm – Intelligence Communications & Analysis Centre, Shinra Building_**

The light was playing on the food cart in just the right way to make its contents appear edible. Usually the squeaking of its under-oiled wheels would always be his first sign of danger, giving him ample time to duck for cover before the terrible cooks and grumpy dinner-ladies could deal any more damage to his small intestines.

He picked up a small piece of chocolate cake, neatly arranged in concentric circles around a large teapot, and tried not to let the glowering eyes of the old woman manning the cart to intimidate him. She stared at his swollen lip, and the dry blood around it, and then stared even harder as he placed the piece of cake back on the tray.

If he hadn't been nursing his facial wound he probably would have been emerging from behind a sofa right about now, but the prospect of impressing his female colleagues with a few battle scars had completely taken all of his attention.

He may have '_bagged'_ more women than he could care to remember, but he still had so much to learn about the opposite sex.

After taking a long look at his watch he slumped lazily on the nearest soft object, ruling out the rather podgy old cart-pusher. He loosened his already loose tie, making it easier to inhale the room's entire supply of oxygen in one breath. If anyone else had seen him sitting so patiently for more than thirty seconds they would have known for sure that he was either plotting something or he had taken a sedative, mysteriously found in his coffee cup. Again.

The former was almost correct. When one is plotting something, one must have a general plot in mind. Reno on other hand was deciding which one of the many convoluted plots was worth plotting.

His eyes darted over to the glass doorway as his superior entered, completely ignoring him and his swollen lip. It disappointed him a little.

Maybe the bright red patch around his face did not contrast heavily enough with his bright red hair? Yes, that sounded feasible enough.

He quickly coughed to gain Tseng's attention.

"Hey, boss."

"Oh, Reno, I didn't see you there," he said, sliding his reading glasses further down his nose as he lowered the stack of papers that appeared to be more interesting than a fat lip. "I've actually been looking for you." He sat down, pointing to Reno's injury without really acknowledging it. "I'm gonna ignore that for now and ask you something about the Lockhart investigation."

"Uh, sure."

He placed his arm over the back of the seat and crossed his legs. It was the generic Boss Posture. He just wanted to connect with his employee and be the nice guy.

It shouldn't have been this damn difficult.

"Information has gotten to the top brass and has now made its way to the slums. The unit's already drained of recourses and money—" _Resources_ meant Turks. _Money_ meant Turks, too. Killers are expensive commodities. "We don't know how these people will react to the news. It might spur them on to light their fuses even faster or if we're lucky, which we never are, it may actually scare them away. One way or another we have to clear up the mess. They can't come out of this on bail – they have to die."

He leaned closer, hoping the uncomfortable nature of proximity would squeeze an ounce of honesty from him.

Reno was beginning to regret his foolhardy decision to plot in the ICA centre.

"Uh, I couldn't agree more, sir."

"It wasn't my decision to make but it's for the good of the company and more importantly is for _our _safety."

The redhead gulped. He didn't like where this was going. He wasn't ready for this decision and he certainly wasn't ready for Tseng to pat his shoulder.

"I want your professional opinion, Reno. Do you think it's worth continuing this investigation behind the head honchos' backs or should we terminate them?"

He gulped again. Faces flooded before his eyes, all swimming in black and white spirals. They made him dizzy.

He wanted to go home.

"Well, I think in the current environment it would be risky to continue the investigation," he said, gaining enough courage to say one little word to wipe the smile off Tseng's face. "But-"

_But I'm kidding, boss! We should wipe the bastards off the face of the planet!_

"_But_?"

"But, according to my knowledge, the information has not found AVALANCHE's ears as of yet. I believe it's necessary to continue the investigation to ensure we have enough information about any sister factions that may be plotting other terrorist activities to destroy this company and this city. Killing the members of AVALANCHE we know of may also spark a fire of revenge in the hearts of unknown members or relatives. Plus..."

"That's all I needed to hear, Reno. I trust your judgement and I expect a full report by nine a.m. sharp on my desk. Is that clear?"

"Yeah, but I hope I'm not being punished for not telling you what you wanna hear," he said nervously, looking at the floor.

Tseng made his way to the door and sighed heavily.

"Fine. Nine thirty."


	11. Nostalgia

**11**

**_Monday, October 18th, 8:49am – Mount Pleasant Elementary School, Sector Seven_**

"He's a little nervous about meeting you, so be nice, OK, Marlene?"

She looked up, mildly reproaching the need for anyone to tell her to be _nice_. If asked, she would have truthfully stated that she was indeed in a sour mood, but she would never let it be known to others through her actions. It was just who she was.

If questioned further, she would have explained that the morning had not been as peachy as usual, waking up to the sounds of new and exciting profanities escaping Uncle Biggs' mouth at the top of his lungs. Persuading her body to leave the warmth of her bed, she had crept down a step or two and peered through two banister bars.

Upon closer inspection she had found him analysing the innards of her father's punching bag, the soft fluffy material replaced with old cutlery. The image of spikes protruding from the bag's surface should have warned anybody of its contents, but Biggs' sleep-induced, vacuous, and somewhat curious, nature simply made a punch or two irresistible.

Discovering the culprit soon usurped the role left for her alarm clock; her suspicions lurking towards Uncle Wedge. On any other day she probably would have been correct but, luckily for Wedge, it had not turned out to be a prank. Apparently it was a means of physical pain her father could inflict upon his knuckles.

What his knuckles had done to deserve this was far beyond her to question, so instead she simply made herself some breakfast.

_No waffles? Great. _

_No milk? Even better._

_No margarine? Perfect._

Dry toast and expired orange juice had been enough to satisfy her, as it had done for the past three early mornings. It didn't bother her as much as she liked to let on because she never was a difficult child, always appreciative of everything and everyone she had, so much so that her curiosity had never even lingered towards questions regarding her absent mother.

She was happy enough to have Barret, Tifa, Wedge, Jessie and even Biggs. They were all the family she really needed.

Most of the children in her school came from poor families, although money was never an issue in the playground. The social divide was purely based around personality, the way it should be.

Marlene was no psychologist, but it hadn't taken her long to realise that sociability was inversely proportional to the size of one's family. At least eighty percent of the shy, lonely kids that found solace sitting in corners by themselves had no parents at all, living under the care of aunts and uncles, grandparents, older siblings or care workers. Some of the tales they scarcely told were gruesome: stories of wars and battlefields and gunfire and gangrene – whatever the hell that was, not that she was desperate to know. Others were heart-wrenching: stories of abuse and domestic violence and crime and adultery.

She considered herself lucky to have such a wonderful, albeit a little grumpy, father, even though his track record for first impressions looked like a set of flies murdered on a piece of paper. When people got over their initial fears and got to know him, they would end up leaving with a true understanding of the idiom _don't judge a book by its cover_.

Yes, he flew off the handle once or twice, but was it a crime to be passionate?

He had never raised his voice to Marlene once, obviously allowing her to perceive him with biased judgment. Of course, that all changed earlier this morning. His grumpiness had elevated to new proportions, bestowing her with a large amount of empathy for the poor milkman that shivered every time he placed their three bottles of semi-skimmed on their doorstep and ran like hell. Maybe it had been the cutlery in the punching bag or maybe it was because Uncle Biggs had broken the floorboards with a dumbbell and plenty of pain-fuelled anger. Either way, he had shouted at her for the first time in, well - ever.

She had simply asked him a few innocent questions to start with, not really detecting his latent irritation. When the innocent questions soon evolved into those regarding Tifa: _Why is she so upset? Why can't we go to the Seventh Heaven? Why don't you want her to take me to school? Why are you not talking to her?_ He completely lost it and told her to '_quit bugging me_!'

His volume shook the house, travelling through every wall, rattling ever doorframe, pulsing through her muscles resulting in a movement that culminated with her cowering in fear. Before he could come to his senses and apologise she had already grabbed her school bag and darted out of the door into Tifa's comforting company. The proprietress was more than understanding as the young girl scratched at her bedroom door like a hungry cat, sweating and teary-eyed. It wasn't an easy sight to witness.

And so, after a cup of hot chocolate and a long hug, they walked hand in hand to her school.

Tifa seemed a lot cheerier than the previous day, her vitality inducing a spring in every step. Back then Marlene could sense the staged smiles, choosing not to dwell on them because she knew they were for her benefit. But looking up at her today was like looking up at a beaming sun after a dull spell of rain, proving that time really did heal all wounds.

She was just unsure how it could act so fast.

They walked past bleach-white picket fences playing with artificial light like a slow moving movie reel before she looked up again, scrunching her eyes.

"Um, huh?"

"His name is Reno and he's my, well-"

"Your boyfriend?"

She played with a few strands of her fringe in a state of mild unease. It was a little strange to be talking to Marlene about boyfriends even though she knew she would have to tell her about them soon enough, knowing fully well that Barret was in no way suitable for the task.

"Yeah. Kinda. We haven't actually called each other boyfriend and girlfriend yet, but maybe."

That explained it. Tifa had gotten over her period of dejection so quickly because of this _Reno_ person. If he was good enough to make Tifa so happy then she knew she would like him.

A smile caught her lips.

"Oh wait! Is that the guy with the funny lookin' red hair that came here like a week ago to take you on a date?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right. So, you've met him?"

"Nope. I was playing with Jake and Sally upstairs and we saw you two walking to his car out the window. We wondered where you were going with that stranger in the nice car."

"Well, he took me to Kalm."

Marlene scrunched her eyes harder as though the word was completely alien to her.

"_Kalm_? Where's that? Is that on the upper plate?"

"No, it's a little village beyond the slums. It's not too far from here," she said, deciding to test Marlene's memory. "Remember when I told you about my hometown? You remember its name?"

Even her mind stuttered as she said, "N-Nieb, Niel... uh..."

"You almost had it," she chuckled. "It's called Nibelheim. It's a beautiful place filled with fresh mountain air, all kinds of pretty trees, wildlife, snow, rain, sunshine, cottages that look like they come from fairy tales, bakeries that make cakes and my favourite blueberry muffins, cold winters, cool summers – and most of all, it has wonderful people."

Marlene sighed and rested her head against Tifa's arm. What she would give to visit Nibelheim.

"It sounds lovely."

"It is. And Kalm is a lot like Nibelheim. There are the Mythril Mines that are made of really chalky stone instead of mountains and it's a lot warmer there, too, especially in the summer. It's a smaller than Nibelheim but it's just as pretty.

"Reno took me there, y'know? You remember those ice-cream cones I bought for you? We got them in Kalm. Then we sat on the hood of his car and watched the sunset."

The later events of the date were a little more mature and lot more humiliating to tell Marlene. It was best to just end the recollection there.

"He sounds like a pretty good guy, Teef. A real keeper."

"I was gonna meet him for some breakfast and when I called him and told him I was taking you to school he just couldn't wait to meet you. I'm sure the two of you will get on like a house on fire."

"Course we will, Teef!" she chirped ebulliently.

The excitement fluttered through the young girl's stomach as she soon found herself rushing ahead, dragging Tifa behind her. Avoiding puddles of caustic water, they skipped through the morning gridlock and stopped by the main gates of the school. Marlene stood on her tip-toes, the extra two inches of altitude not really proving to be beneficial.

"Where is he?"

Tifa checked her watch.

"He said he would meet me here right about now."

"Hmm, late?" Marlene uttered, folding her arms and shaking her head. "Not a very good first impression."

"You should know better than anyone that first impressions don't always amount to much."

She clambered upon the rails of the school gates, only to be pulled down again by Tifa. Kicking a few clumps of dirt away in retaliation, she placed her hands in her coat pockets and tried not to think of her father's loud voice.

The taunts of a group of bellicose boys fighting with one another in the playground caught her eyes, giving her something to gaze at other than Tifa's disapproving expression.

"I don't know. First impressions can give you lots o' things to think about. Most of it's probably true." She found the courage to look up. "Like the first time I met you. My first impression was that you were pretty and sweet and really nice... and I was right."

Tifa smiled warmly. If all the men on the planet turned out to be utter pigs, at least she had this little cherub by her side to cheer her up.

"You know what my first impression of you was, Marlene?"

The little girl shrugged her shoulders.

"Nope."

Tifa knelt besides her, rearranging the ribbon in her hair in a very motherly fashion as she said, "I saw a little girl with a big beaming smile, big sparkly eyes and a big beautiful heart."

"You could _see _my heart?" she asked, a little shocked.

"Well, I couldn't see it with my eyes... I could see it with my mind. I can see your intelligence and your innocence and your imagination all with my mind and they are all so wonderful."

Marlene's train of thought was interrupted as Tifa clenched her hand and pointed off into the distance.

"Look, honey. Here he comes."

She saw a familiar patch of bright red hair and a pale face emerging from the dull grey crowd. He winked as he strutted over, offered his greeting by curtly smooching Tifa and finally concluded his stream of action by patting Marlene's head at an arms length as though she were a stray dog.

"Hey there, Marlene. My name's Reno. Tifa has told me a lot about you."

Marlene froze, hiding behind Tifa's leg. She knew coyness was a cute attribute for little kids, sparing no room for embarrassment when she felt uncomfortable.

"Say hello, Marlene. I'm sorry, she gets a little shy, but she seemed really eager to meet you before."

"It's my ugly lip, isn't it, Marlene?" he asked, placing a palm over the slow-to-heal bruise. "There's actually a funny story about how I got this. You see, I was walking down the street with a real strut in my step – like this." He demonstrated a gait more suitable to a rooster than a human. It made Marlene giggle. "I only ever walk like that when I'm really happy and do you know why I was so happy?"

Marlene smiled as she shook her head. He smiled too, safe in the knowledge that she was warming up to him.

"I was so happy because I had just finished talking to Tifa. She has a habit of making me smile when I talk to her. Does that ever happen to you?" He paused as Marlene confirmed this by looking up at Tifa, both of them giggling together. "Well, darn it, I was so happy I decided to strut and sing The Chocobo Song out loud. When I sing, I tend to close my eyes so that I don't strain myself when I hit the _high notes_." He sang the last two words in a very effeminate note for a cheap laugh. "Here's the real silly part. As I was walking with my eyes closed, singing The Chocobo Song, I managed to strut right into a lamppost!"

Marlene burst out laughing and began to edge forward, away from the protection of Tifa's leg.

The proprietress smiled warmly at the story that had once involved muggers and a certain gold anklet that was supposed to be a gift for her, silently thanking him for editing the tale for this younger audience member.

"Did you really walk into a lamppost?" she asked timidly.

"Yup. I can be such a klutz sometimes."

"Hey, Marlene," Tifa said, gently pinching her cheeks. "Why don't you show Reno your special trick?"

"Trick?"

"Pardon me. I mean, your_ scientifically proven _method of palm reading."

"Hmm. I dunno..."

Reno held out his hand and winked.

"Please," he whimpered. "I've always wanted to meet a real clairvoyant."

"Well, OK."

She took his palm and began to gaze at every tiny crack and crevice that created the unique blueprints of his soul. She tickled him with her small fingers, traversing over delicate skin, following lines and wrinkles. Shadows hid the finer cracks, forcing her to tilt his hand from side to side to get into the light. She read his fingers, each digit telling its own story, tributaries of a life converging at the tip of his palm.

He had never believed in chiromancy or any other hocus-pocus nonsense, but was suddenly aware that he was leaning in closer to glimpse at the ever changing faces of the young girl and the palm that she found so interesting. She didn't want his money. She wasn't trying to con him. She was just a naive little child.

Something about that just made this oddly endearing. What fortune would she foretell?

She held his palm with both hands as she spoke.

"Hmm... OK. You'll have a long life... hmm, let's see... ah! You are destined to find your one true love..." He looked over at Tifa and winked as she said this. "But there is still something troubling you..."

He narrowed his eyes as she said this, deciding to pay a little more attention.

"What?"

"It's hard to say... maybe someone close to you is in trouble. It's a little fuzzy, but I'm getting a strong feeling... yes, someone close to you is suffering. I can see another line here, see this arch? It's connecting to this fold of skin... it shows a struggle... and I see a difficult choice... a fork in the road in your heart..."

She inched ever closer to his palm.

"I also see... _deception_... wait! Oh no, I had something but it's gone..." she rubbed her forehead and tried to concentrate before Reno slowly removed his palm, staring at the young girl through bewildered eyes.

"Wow, you, uh - you got all that from _this_ old thing?" he said, genuinely impressed, waving his hand in the air.

She turned to face the playground as the bell rang, interrupting any chance of a reply.

"I gotta go!" she exclaimed, jumping up to peck Tifa's cheek. "Are you picking me up from school today?"

"I don't know if Barret would be very happy about that-"

"_Pleeeasse_!" she groaned, still jumping up and down on the spot.

"OK, OK," Tifa conceded. "Now hurry up or you'll be late for school."

"Thanks, Teef," she said happily, rushing through the gates. "See ya!"

Reno watched the little girl leave, staring at his palm as though his life would somehow reflect off it.

All he could see was skin and flesh.

"Wow, she's uh... she's-"

"She's really something," Tifa said, thankfully finding a vague enough word for an accurate description. "A long life and your true love, huh? It looks like God gave you a good deal."

"Yeah._ Deception_ is a pretty big word for a six-year-old, though."

"Marlene's very smart and has a very vivid imagination. That's why I think she's so fun to be around." She grabbed his hand and took a quick glance at his palm. "Hmm... I sense that you're hungry... and that you're taking me to a very posh place for breakfast."

"Oh, am I in the presence of another clairvoyant?" he asked, pulling her closer to kiss her.

"No. I'm just very, very lucky."

**_Monday, October 18th, 9:34am – Mundo Novo Coffeehouse, Upper Plate_**

He had planned to take her to _Rolling Scones_, deciding against it after consuming an odd looking burrito that had left him with a bout of epic diarrhoea, unwilling to blame his weak stomach or his nervous disposition after he had eaten, leaving Darnell's café open to be the perfect scapegoat.

Luckily enough, the coffeehouse house had been a refreshing choice. He had never been to other side of town colonised by eateries that were christened with titles more foreign the further out one travelled, leaving many with the impression that the edifices on the plate's extreme edge were named with a string of random consonants and fictional vowels. He could only deduce that indecipherable names represented quality, filled to the brim with aristocrats nibbling on any animal carcass as long as the words _Free Range_ were stamped across their rumps.

Why, he thought to himself, would anyone with this much money want to wake up so early, wrap themselves in layer after layer of dead beast and apply all their fancy cosmetic products, hiding their horns and ruby complexion, simply for the sake of eating breakfast?

It was anyone's guess and was also the only trivial thought that occupied enough brain space to steal his attention from that of Marlene and her eerie fortune.

The couple's eyes caught one another and they began to smile. They were the first customers of the day, currently occupying a small table by the window positioned the perfect distance from the radiator, the television, the view of autumnal birch trees shedding their scarlet leaves on the pavement and the menu glazed into the glass beside them. It was almost as if he had been here before.

He had not fully warmed his cheeks up, but found enough strength to smile at the waitress that handed him his stack of pancakes and his black coffee. Then again, anyone that put hot food in front of him would automatically earn his loyalty, giving him an almost charming canine attribute. He thought it was just a normal male quality, but, as most females say, men _are_ dogs.

She forked her way through an omelette and cradled her cup of tea, the warm vapours providing a sense of comfort on the nippy day.

"Oh, my," she said. "These remind me of the omelettes my dad used to make."

"Ah, the power of nostalgia knows no bounds."

"Tell me about it. It's like the other day I was surfing the web and came across a cartoon I used to adore as a child. It was a cartoon I hadn't seen in over - how long was it? God! Fifteen years! Has it really been that long?" she said, shaking her head as she watched the blushing leaves dance with the wind. "It just took me back to my youth in one fell swoop. I was a kid again for ten minutes. I had no job, no rent, no fears, no worries, no problems. And it really made me wonder where my childhood went. When did I stop becoming _Sweetie_ and when did I become _Miss Lockhart?_ It just seems a real blur, y'know?" She pushed the omelette around her plate and sighed. "It's kinda scary how time just melts away like that."

"That's what memories are for," he said, the reassurance in his voice competing with the warmth of her teacup.

"I suppose. But sooner or later memories just become images of the things you had and took for granted. They can really haunt you."

He reached out to hold her hand. His was icy in comparison but she didn't flinch.

Putting his fork down on the table, a gesture that guaranteed he was ready to donate all of his attention, he gazed into her eyes.

"I want you to do something for me," he said, holding her other hand as though they were ready to begin an incantation together. "I want you to close your eyes and think of your earliest memory. It's not easy for some people, but I want you to try. It may be a memory from when you were six months old or a memory from last week." He paused as she chuckled. "Just think of the oldest memory pushed away in the back of your mind."

There were no protests. She was ready to accept his challenge.

With her fingers still clamped between his, she leaned back and closed her eyes, much to the amusement of the waiters that had been staring at the couple for the past five minutes. Taking a few deep breaths for good measure, she began the journey through thick cables of light. Electric hues travelled through her mind's eye, connecting every memory she had banked in her head, all ordered chronologically.

She encountered Marlene for the very first time. The little girl hid behind Barret before a warm smile and a friendly introduction had lured her away from the safety of her father's leg. She was such a beautiful little thing, so full of joy and wonder.

A sudden wheeze blotted all colours from vision and breathing became difficult. Waking up in the slums for the first time shook her to they very core of her being. Her teacher, the only person she knew and had left, was simply nothing more than a hazy silhouette through a hospice door. Why was he leaving her in this hell hole alone?

The colour redistributed itself around her - the colour of blood. The heat of the flames licked her body as though she were a piece of insignificant flotsam, navigating her way through the river Styx. The intensity of the flames charred her soul, depositing layer after layer of soot. The solid wall of dancing orange spears boiled her blood as it oozed through the gaping hole in her chest, ruining her mother's favourite blouse. The smell of black smoke and blood. The crackles of flames and the cries of death... _Father..._

She suddenly felt the nipping wind bathing her once more. The stone bricks of the well felt cold against her thighs – she had always hated wearing skirts. She had seen him hiding in the alleyway, rearranging his hair and practicing what he would say to her. Something about leaving? Was he going to leave her? Wasn't he supposed to protect her when she was in need?

Another hospital formed around her, fading from black. Her father was there by her bedside, holding her hand and kissing her forehead. He was there to protect her. He was there and that was all she needed from him to mend her broken bones.

Birthdays, holidays, Christmases, Hanukkahs, high school, Nibelheim, Midgar, parents, friends, boys, girls, sunshine, rain, happiness, pain...

She inhaled sharply as she opened her eyes to find Reno anticipating her return.

"I was a baking a pie with my mother. Well, _I_ wasn't baking or doing anything really. I was just sitting on the countertop, too short to get up there unaided, and watched her as she baked a peach pie. We talked and laughed for hours. It was one of the few times I'd ever gotten to spend some alone time with my mother without work stealing her away from me." She wiped a tear from her eye with a shaky hand. "She died a long time ago and I feel ashamed to admit that since then... I've forgotten what she looked like. But for that brief period in my head, I actually saw her. It was crystal clear and it felt real. So real that I could almost touch her."

Reno squeezed her hands tighter.

_Jackpot!_

"You wonder why _that_ particular memory is the earliest one you can remember? Do you understand why you filter so much but keep that one memory locked up so safely that it takes a minute or two to unearth?"

The tears had finally stopped.

"I suppose I shouldn't be afraid to look back at what I had once in a while."

He nodded in response.

"There's no need to worry about a haunting past. All you need to do is make sure your present life gives you great memories for the future. You've got to live on the edge, you've got to be crazy and act on impulse every now and again. Don't let past events create inhibitions for the future."

"Whoa. Where do these pearls of wisdom come from?"

He pointed out of the window with his fork.

"On days like these, cold days like these, I strip down to my underwear and stand on my roof. By some strange cosmological law of the universe, epiphanies are only granted to humans with nipples longer than two inches."

She snorted and buried her head in folded arms to conceal her laughter. She managed to let out a high pitched, "What?"

"Newton went through three shirts a day before the apple fell on his head. Einstein had to wear sports bras for crying out loud! But unfortunately alternative routes were required for those of us who weren't bestowed with massive nipples."

"Uh huh? And what was your most recent epiphany?"

He looked up to the corner of his sockets and nodded upon recollection of the answer.

"Don't eat yellow snow."

"Wow, as far as epiphanies go, that has to be one of the lamest."

"Yeah, well as far as the cosmological rules go, the same epiphany can be dispensed to more than one person. I was pretty pissed when I got that one, I'm telling you. I spent five hours on the roof with my breasts out just begging hypothermia to give me a reason to get down."

She had finished her omelette and had now decided to simply nurse the rest of her tea. It felt nice to just run away to the upper plate and have bizarre conversations with her boyfriend. She felt like a new person; a person with a life that didn't involve serving other people drinks and mopping up their vomit; a person with a life that didn't involve bloodshed, fear and anxiety. She just wanted to be normal. Was that so much to ask for?

_Boyfriend?_

Yes, she definitely felt comfortable saying it.

"So, what does it feel like?"

"Getting an epiphany?" he asked, continuing after she nodded. "Well, it's a little hard to explain. Um, it's like the feeling you get when you're a kid and you wake up on Christmas morning. The chemical that creates that feeling of excitement just courses through every vein in your body. For about ten seconds you feel like you own the world. It's truly amazing and is definitely worth the nipple related torture."

A bell above the door chimed as more customers entered, breaking the couple's conversation. She didn't care. She was comfortable enough just sitting and gazing through his eyes.

He decided to ignore them, too, mentally preparing the monologue he had rehearsed over and over again, much to the amusement of the script writers up in Section G.

"On a more serious note – my latest epiphany, I mean a _real_ epiphany, was about the Shinra."

She did not seem to react at all to the two syllable panic word. It wasn't the best of starts.

"It was more of a dream actually," he continued. "You know those types of dreams that you can really feel happening? I think it was related to another heated conversation I'd had with my boss about the power outages that occurred in the slums around five or six months ago. We were discussing how people down there found ways of surviving for the week or two without power. You must know for yourself, right?"

"Yeah. We survived due to the abundance of candlelight and canned food."

"Exactly. OK, so think about the number of people that died in the heat-waves with no air conditioning, think about the car accidents that occurred due to lack of light, think of the increased numbers of burglaries and robberies and add up the total death count. If I remember correctly, it was around two hundred people.

"Now, let's think about Mako energy. I don't know the exact half-life of the substance, but I know it emits a lot of radiation. Do you know what the Shinra do with their used Mako? They confine them in lead cases and guess where they store them?"

"I've seen lorries burying them in the slums," Tifa spoke softly, the image forcing a shudder.

"It's disgusting, right? I mean, I've seen burial sites near schools for crying out loud! And the crux of the matter is that lead can only contain the radiation for a period of around twenty-four hours. It's just about enough time for the delivery boys to ship it downstairs and run like hell.

"I worry, I mean _I really _worry about how long it will take for genetic mutations and radiation poisoning to grasp the population. The fact that Shinra provides power for the Slums means nothing if in ten years or so the populace will _all _die or mutate into monsters."

He paused for dramatic effect.

"So, what do we do? We know that the people of the Slums are resilient and we know that they are better off without Mako energy. So, I simply added two and two together – why don't we destroy the reactors?"

Perhaps he was a better raconteur than Barret. Perhaps she agreed with him simply because he was the only person left to agree with. Every single person she loved was willing to become a terrorist, so who was she to disagree with them?

Reno leaned forward and whispered, "Hey. Have you ever heard of _AVALANCHE_?"

She did not want to be alone or cast asunder anymore. Even so, for a reason unknown to her at this time, she responded with the word, "_No_ – No, I can't say that I have."

He stared at her blankly and retreated to the back of his seat. He could spend all day wondering why she had said no, but instead he simply told her to forget about it, soon asking a passing waiter for the bill and a slice of peach pie for the road.

* * *

**A/N**

OK, this was posted unusually quickly. The reason was because I have exams that start in about two weeks so for the next three or four weeks I won't be writing much (which is pretty much the usual!). So, I decided to squeeze this one out as fast as possible for you guys.

Enjoy.

aardy.


	12. Bliss

**12**

**_Wednesday, October 20th, 8:49am – 'Cellar 5: Potions & Liquor', Sector Seven_**

Like a denizen of the fiery deep, his eyes shimmered in the dark corner of his store, an antiquated little building in the heart of Sector Seven. It cowered in the centre of a thriving metropolis, hissing at modern technology under the blanket of darkness, reeking of neglect amongst other things.

The windows, panelled with wood soaked in dark varnish, provided a home for numerous species of spiders, their webs lining corners like accursed art. He had never been fond of arachnids but still found their silk tapestries rather beautiful, reflecting firelight that flickered around the room, the cherry coloured waxes drooling over the edges of candlesticks, releasing therapeutic scents. They provided unnecessary warmth that only thickened the air around his lungs. He could feel every particle constricting his chest, assuming the fear had no part to play at all.

Inching towards the counter with sweat penetrating the thin fabric of his shirt, he placed his palms over the rough wood, an oddly pleasant sensation against his skin. He was in close enough range to smell the foul powdered mako, much stronger and cheaper than heroin, trapped in matted bristles of facial hair. It was all the rage these days. He would have tried it himself were he not so attached to the bottle of brown liquid passing from the clerk's hand to his.

Sliding a few crisp bills over the table-top, allowing them to achieve a familiarity with the owner that would probably never part with them again, he left, bottle in hand and a smile on his lips. Upon his exit he unscrewed the cap and swigged at the liquid fire, tamed by the bravest brewers. It was not a drink to be sipped at or mollycoddled. You were simply supposed to tilt your head back and pour, smashing the bottle to pieces afterwards.

It was his ritual.

Police sirens rallied around him from more than three directions, the blue and red lights splashing over his body for a split second as the newly formed convoy of justice gave chase to another lost cause. They kept his mind occupied for enough time to seem relevant as he took a seat on the stone wall by the store with nowhere to hide.

Town centres were infected with swarms of people at all hours of the day, the emptiest places usually the darkest with only the sounds of a few distant dogs barking at one another carrying through the atramental air.

He gulped down the last quart and threw the bottle on the ground. The explosion of shards did little to make him feel any better, simply setting off more barks from previously silent dogs. Through the blankness, they could smell his sweat and the alcohol on his breath. They could sense his fear. His pain. His suffering.

Somehow dreams of mythological beings had transformed into those of celestial bodies, the planets revolving aimlessly around their guardian star. They held such mystery; the mystery of their purpose and of their origins. They provoked those old questions that had been forbidden by his parents, for questioning God was a punishable sin, obviously.

What God had been doing when the three-legged cat routed through garbage cans outside the alley was beyond him. What was He doing when the prostitutes were beaten senseless by the men that _owned _them? What was He doing when evil rose to power?

_What was He doing when He gave me a gun... and a son_?

He looked up to the sky, finding nothing more than solid darkness, wires barely visible feeding through the core of the central pillar. For a moment or two, he could picture Dante, traversing layer after layer of different hells inhabited by demons and sinners. The very core was imperceptible until he closed his eyes and looked within himself. The fire was burning. He could feel it scorching the back of his throat.

But where was heaven?

His breakfast of diluted ethanol had not burnt away those last few strands of pain, leaving him with two options: get another bottle and get plastered before nine a.m. or walk to the school with at least some sense of sobriety.

He checked his wallet and smacked his lips.

"School it is."

Shuffling over the cobbles like a zombie, he made his way over to the outer perimeter of the school yard, the children rushing around making more noise than ever, reminding him of Wutaian folklore regarding solar eclipses. Centuries ago the farmers working in the paddy fields believed a grand dragon was trying to consume the sun. So, they would try and frighten it away by throwing stones and screaming at the top of their lungs – always successful.

The more noise they made the more his head pounded. They were certainly protecting themselves from _this_ monster.

Scanning the grounds, he took a few moments to locate him before the sight, as always, almost brought him to tears.

Illogical. Indecipherable. Inscrutable. They were all synonymous descriptions of an emotion he could not control. It didn't matter how true it felt in his heart or how painful it felt anymore because all the people he shared it with had deserted him and turned their backs on him, not through rage, nor fear. It was the step above respect according to his leaders, but he hated it vehemently.

_Maybe I'm not cut out for this anymore._

"Marlene, I see Jake over there. Why don't you run along and I'll pick you up at three?"

He did not turn around. Her voice told him everything; tinged with a bitter disgust and an equal measure of trepidation, encased in lilting beauty for the little girl to understand she was in no danger.

Tiny footsteps disappeared into the distance before she spoke again.

"So, which one of them is yours?"

He had not been expecting this. Sure, he had come here to see his son, at least that's what he told himself. His conscience would not let him escape from this one unscathed though. It was far too spiteful for that. It was the only aspect of his mind that knew the truth and the only one strong enough to overcome his free will, berating and bullying him every step of the way. It screeched her name out a thousand times. It laughed at his weakness.

It knew he didn't give a damn about his son – he just wanted to spy on the pretty lady a little more like the perverted sicko it knew he was.

The alcohol had not shut it up, nor had the sight of his beautiful child, but the sound of her voice, the fear and the hatred swimming in every word was enough to tie the noose.

Silence, serenity, peace. _Guilt_. It was still there.

He turned back, fearful of what he had done to those big brown eyes of hers, and tried to smile.

"Are you... are you giving me a chance to explain myself?"

She moved towards the fence and waved affectionately at Marlene and Jake as they played together. Unable to look him directly in the face, she clenched her teeth as she spoke and continued to fix her gaze on the energetic children.

"I'm not here to forgive you. What you did was wrong."

"I know, but-"

"Let me finish," she interjected gruffly. "But over the past few days I thought about it and I realised you were just doing your job. You were doing what you thought was the right thing to do for the sake of your career and I understand that. My... _friends_ think that blowing up Mako reactors is the right thing to do – and I know they all have good hearts. They're just a little misguided. I-I... I think that's how I feel about you, too. I get the strangest feeling that within you there is a good heart. It's just beating to the wrong rhythm."

She understood him with simple analysis better than he could ever understand himself. And even with all the gadgets at his company's disposal, he had barely scratched the surface of her complexity. He had no idea who she was or what she was capable of and that was what intrigued him the most.

"Your job must be difficult," she continued, "isolating yourself from people, trying not to get attached to anyone. _Murdering_."

"You're still alive, aren't you? I haven't told my superiors anything I've learnt about you, I promise."

He didn't mean to phrase his response so harshly, knowing he had done enough to her already.

"That's not the point. When I'd found out what you'd done I just felt so... so _violated_."

"I'm sorry, Tifa. I don't know what else I can say to make you feel better, but you have to know that I'm being sincere."

Her heart stopped thumping, her eyes dried considerably. For the first time she was out of things to say or questions to ask for fear of what she might hear. She did not need any more apologies, not anymore.

After all the thinking she had done she had come to the conclusion that he wasn't worth the effort – but something had constantly nagged away at her.

_Why did he come to the bar even though I had been kicked out of AVALANCHE? Why did he bump into me when he knew he would be identified by Sheila? Why did he flirt with me instead of interrogating me?_

She had definitely made up her mind. She did not want to speak to him anymore. She wanted to turn her back on him and waltz away with her dignity in tact. She wanted to hurt him the way he had hurt her.

Instead, however, she said, "You still haven't answered my question."

"What?"

"Grown men only hang around school playgrounds for two reasons: to see their children or to... I don't even wanna say the other one. So, which kid is yours?"

It wasn't exactly a smile, but something strange lurked around Rude's lips.

"You may find this a little strange but I'd bet anything that you know my child better than I do."

"What? What are you talking about?"

He didn't want her sympathy for the sake of his pride, even though the idea was utterly tempting. On the other hand maybe it was simply time to get it off his chest. Maybe fate had decided to bring him divine counsel in the form of this incredible person.

Anyone was better than Reno.

"I, uh... I have a boy. He's six years old. He loves comic books and Rocky Road ice cream. He's the quiet type. The strong, silent type, if you will. He takes after his old man, I guess.

"He's... he's not deaf but he has a problem with speech. I-I think the doctors call him a _mute_ but I don't like to categorise him like that. He's special. He's an individual."

Tifa covered her gaping jaw in shock, her eyes darting from the playground to Rude's sullen expression.

"You're son is...? _Jake Gauthier_?"

"_Carter_..." he whispered, "Jake _Carter_."

With a minute or two to absorb the information, she peered through the fence at the sweet young boy sitting besides Marlene. She had baked him cookies, read stories to him when he slept over, played Scrabble with him and even had a decent conversation or two with the aid of a pad and pen.

He was so innocent, so full of life despite his rather cold exterior. A really wonderful child.

And now, all of a sudden, he seemed tainted.

_What am I thinking? Jake's nothing like his father. But is Rude anything like his son?_

With a compassionate smile she tapped the Turk's shoulder.

"You wanna go for that fabled cup of coffee? I could really use the caffeine."

**_Wednesday, October 20th, 9:30am – Heartilly's Coffeehouse, Upper Plate_**

"So, what's it like to work for the Shinra?"

He had been waiting for her to ask that as soon as she had let her empathy get the better of her back down in the slums. The train journey up had almost been an excruciating experience had he been consciously aware that he had not spoken to her once or even acknowledged her existence. Finding the answer to this ice breaker had been enough to ensnare his mind and, even with so much time to prepare, he still had no definite response.

Would it be better if he just watched her swirl that teaspoon in her mug over and over again as she stared at him with what could only be described as a smile? He knew she was willing to forget the world revolved, too, until she got her answer.

What had triggered her smile in the first place? The fact that they were sitting in a coffee shop together was mindboggling enough without having to wonder why _she_ had been the one to offer the invitation. He was the enemy. He had invaded her privacy and had even been willing to kill her, although she didn't quite know about that yet.

"It's hard to explain," he responded, waiting for a cute little quip to emerge over the steam of her cup.

She stopped stirring and lifted the dull teaspoon, letting it cool on the edge of the china saucer. The very sight of this act deflated him a little. Maybe she wasn't as keen to hear the answer as he had expected. Maybe she was trying to make conversation to compensate for the unusual silence on the train.

Whatever she was doing, his rather uninspiring reply was not exactly helping matters.

"I mean, we get in trouble for leaking information to outside sources. So much so that most of us make it intentionally difficult to talk about it. It's now actually become a standard routine to teach new cadets, although I'm not sure how kids can cope with the burden of remaining silent under torture. I don't know how I managed it at that age."

"Really? How young were you?"

She sounded more like a reporter interviewing a criminal rather than a friend; a tape recorder and a bad perm the only things missing from the ensemble. Then again, she had every right to act detached.

"Fourteen. It sounds bad but during the Wutai war they didn't care how young their soldiers were as long as they knew how to shut up and follow orders."

"That must have been tough," she said, staring at the swirling clumps of milk in her coffee.

"My adoptive father was a sergeant in SOLDIER. He wanted me to become the next Sephiroth but I had no intention of fighting. At that age I, uh... I actually wanted to be a race car driver."

He held his head low in shame at his pathetic aspiration only to feel the onset of euphoria gripping his throat. Her warm fingers touched the back of his hand and stroked the shame away. After finding the courage to look up, he witnessed the return of her smile, more radiant than ever.

"I don't know who you are, who you _were_ when we met before, but something is telling me that this is the first truly honest thing you've said to me, and now I'm beginning to think that I _was _right about you."

Was that all it took? He had spoken up for his own benefit, to make him feel good about himself, and it had somehow transubstantiated into something that exposed his vulnerability, his innocence and most of all, the virtue Tifa had desperately been seeking, his humanity.

His body brimmed with courage like a well in a heavy rainstorm.

"I used to drive my adoptive father's pickup in the grasslands around Kalm when he wasn't around. He'd spend weeks, sometimes months, in Wutai, coming back to a decent home-cooked dinner and the snooker on television, reeking of blood and gun powder. He didn't care to look at my school report cards, which is probably why I had given up on school earlier than most of my classmates."

He smiled as he began to picture the clouds of black smoke belching from his father's old pickup.

"He loved that truck more than he loved his wife but still didn't notice all the refinements I made. There was a time in my more turbulent adolescent years when I painted a multi-coloured phoenix on the passenger door. The old man only noticed when one of his drinking buddies pointed it out to him after a night in _The Old Drinkin' Hole_."

She giggled at all the right times, quashing the nagging, self deprecating, voice in his head that was pleading with him to shut his mouth.

Tifa stretched her arms forward over the table in a very cute feline manner as she nodded along with a thought in her head.

"I suppose I took my relationship with my father for granted," she said, a slight tremble gripping her throat. "I was his little princess and I always assumed that that's just the way dads were supposed to be with their daughters. Most of the girls I used to play with hardly had any relationship at all with their mothers, let alone their fathers, but I was always too much of an airhead to realise it. I was always so preoccupied with myself and my own well being to actually think about others."

"You can't blame yourself for things like that, I mean, you were only a child."

"I know," she replied, toying with a sugar bowl. "But it just upsets me. I suppose I should get used to it though.

"Oh, come to think of it, my boyfriend told me not to worry about a haunting past. Apparently it's better to just live in the moment. And I actually think he's right."

_That sounds like something Reno would say. Typical- _

_Wait, did she just call him her boyfriend?_

"He sounds like a real go-getter."

"You know what?" Tifa said, leaning back in her chair to get as far from this awkward turn in the conversation as she possibly could. "Let's not talk about him. I would love to know about how you met Monica. I've met her once or twice at the school and I can't for the life of me picture how you two could have ended up together. Not to sound rude or anything, you know, I didn't mean it like that-"

"It's OK," he said, saving her further embarrassment. "To be honest, that's a dark road I'd rather not travel down again. Like your boyfriend said, let's not let the past haunt us."

"OK, but I think he left out a very salient point. I think the only time you can let go of your past is once you've confronted it. I mean, you felt better when you told me your corny dream to become a race car driver, right?"

He smiled, staring intently at the grains in the wooden skirting boards.

"I don't know. Maybe some other time."

"Cool," she replied, standing up to get her coat. "Give me a shout when you feel like talking. I'm sure you know where to find me."

She reached for the door handle, hoping the hinges would creak or the cold air would swim inside, disrupting the warmth and the thought processes that stopped him from calling her name. Without such luck she buried her neck in her coat and braved the weather, the moisture of her breath trapped within. She wanted to know what he was thinking. She wanted to know his history, his roots and the origin of his downfall. She wanted to know because she wanted to help him. At least that's what she thought.

_Yes. I know where I'll find you. I'll find you in **his** arms. I'll find your heart broken. Shattered to a million pieces. And you'll hate me for not telling you. You'll hate me forever. If only you knew. If only I could tell you._

_If only._

It wasn't worth it. He would rather watch her travel back to the penurious land below rather than allowing memories of _her_ to surface. Those were days long gone; days that could never harm him again.

Yes., she was expecting too much of him, wasn't she?

It didn't really matter what he thought. He was already out on the street staring at the silhouette framed within a border of bright sunlight. He looked down at the legs that had betrayed him, then silently reprimanded the vocal chords that followed suit.

"Tifa – wait!"

She turned back, the sound of her name wrapped in urgency inducing her lips to curl up into that I-knew-it smile. She wouldn't play stupid or coy. She knew why he had called her name and silently allowed him to reel her back into the cosiness of the cafe.

"I'm all ears," she said, throwing her coat back over the leather as she took a seat, staring at him like an ice-cold interrogator.

He drummed his fingers along the smooth tabletop, staring at them as though they covered a portal to a projector screen of his history.

"We met a few years ago, around six or seven, I can never remember how many. I guess that's one of the reasons we're now apart. The only thing I can really remember is the moment I saw her for the first time. I thought I was in the presence of an angel sent down from heaven to help me expiate my sins."

He took a sip of coffee just to occupy his trembling hands.

"It sounds selfish when I think about it now but I was still a child back then. It was nice to have my faith restored after the hard years of growing up under the supervision of a soldier whose idea of bedtime stories are those of hordes of infantrymen crushed to death under the stone ammunition of giant trebuchets, of cavalrymen breaking their necks falling off horses struck by torched arrows and of soldiers held hostage, tortured and finally decapitated, their expressions upon expiration never changing, implanted upon spikes as trophies of war.

"He never once talked about Shinra's victories or the peaceful Wutaian medics that cared for the injured either side of the battlefield, but instead painted the picture of a war that couldn't be won against a mass of savage barbarians.

"He never gave me much to look up or forward to in the entirety of my childhood. But just one glance of Monica's smile was enough to make me believe. It was enough to let me know that someone up there hadn't forgotten me and that I still had something, _someone_ to look up and forward to."

"Was it love at first sight?" she asked, dreamily, almost expecting this story to have a happy ending.

He had been professing his feelings for this woman by comparing her to a celestial creature, so it was only natural for Tifa to believe that he had fallen in love with her. The question itself did not bother him as much as the answer. He knew it, or at least he thought he knew it. But what it implied shocked him a little.

_Love at first sight? Did I really fall in love with her so quickly? What does that say about me?_

Her question begot more in his mind, occupying enough time for her to grow uncomfortable.

"Uh, Rude?"

He snapped out of his trance and shook the thoughts clear of his mind.

"I think the word _love _may be a little strong, but there was definitely something. I'm glad she was my first." He quickly verbalised the intended context of his last sentence to avoid embarrassing himself. "_My_ _first case_, I'm glad she was my first case."

"_First case_? What do you mean?"

"She was my first job. My first victim. As I'm sure that you're aware, the Turks dabble in other things beyond scouting for SOLDIERs and covert espionage."

"You mean _murder_?"

He nodded, the two syllables releasing shame through his mind, flushing it down to the pit of his stomach.

"She was a material witness to a crime committed by a punk that has the ability to escape justice with nothing more than a mention of his surname. I was given the role of the executioner to test my mettle, to see if I was worthy of the emblem sewn into my breast pocket."

"So, what happened? Did you get too close?"

"It seems to be too much of a cliché to be true, but getting too close to a victim can be a career threatening-"

He stopped.

So did she.

They stared at one another, realising the parallels of that story and this, gawking at the history repeating itself like a looped movie reel.

The pain in his eyes was nothing more than a reflection to the pain she had seen in Monica's and she knew she had only scraped the tip of the iceberg. Who knew what dark routes this story would take? Passion mutating into mistrust, mistrust dissolving into hatred between two rather introverted people uneducated in matters involving a healthy expression of their emotions? These were the only predictable plotlines, the rest would have been anyone's guess, and now, with this bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach, this nauseating feeling of oncoming déjà-vu, she realised that she didn't want to know anymore. She didn't want to become a part of the story. She didn't want the blood stains on her soul.

She had enough of those already.

He leapt up as she clumsily took to her feet, knocking sugar cellars and coffee mugs off the table, creating an explosion of clay on the tiled flooring. Coffee grounds crunched underfoot as he draped her arm over his shoulder to maintain her stability. Apologizing profusely, he left, escorting her limp body out into the cold morning air.

The stereotypical fantasy of playing her knight in shining armour was too appealing to loosen his grasp on, even though he knew his help was the last thing she would ever want.

He took a look at her pale cheeks, at the dimples and dry skin that looked ever so cold. She was almost unconscious, her head lolling to and fro. She looked so... so _angelic_.

Lifting her in his arms, he began the slow march through the treacherous weather, occasionally moving the strands of sweet scented hair from her face, blown around by the mischievous wind. He wanted to cradle her in his arms forever and for her to embrace him in return. He wanted to feel her warm breath on the back of his neck and protect her from all the evils in the world.

In that case, he should leave her alone for good to protect her from himself.

Still, the thought of being her knight in shining armour was a thought of monumental bliss, even if it would only last for another twenty minutes.


	13. Reflection

**13**

**_Wednesday, October 20th, 10:12am – Midgarian Outskirts_**

He was born again. Reincarnated. Once a boy; a shy little dreamer. Then a soldier, fighting for attention. Now a prisoner, released on the verge of expiration.

Through his dilated pupils and his fogged lenses he made an image of the world. Colours melted into one another, their pallor transforming his surroundings into a three dimensional watercolour. They drifted here and there taking on the shapes of objects he recognised, mimicking the clouds in the sky, the only art substance of the immortals.

The air became a soothing fluid, bathing his skin and cooling it considerably. He could hear it rustling the leaves of nearby trees as he passed underneath them, receiving their shade for a few blissful minutes. It carried the songs of native birds and the howls of a lone wolf.

It carried the stench of blood.

Sweet blood.

Rolling onto his stomach proved to be far more difficult than he could have anticipated, rendered immobile as bullets exploded from their chambers, pounding through flesh and bone.

His lips would not open. His tongue could not object.

He couldn't scream.

He couldn't cry.

He couldn't look away.

It fell from the sky like scarlet rain, splattering against his cheeks in thick droplets, a bucket of red paint pitched over his beautiful watercolour world followed by the thin peppering of black and green over the horizon. The patterns they produced were familiar, blanketing the sky as they showered a mass of floating concrete and the surrounding scrubland with acid rain.

His fingers twitched in the mud as a boot pressed upon his hand. Through the glare, framed in pure heavenly white dissolving into putrid black, he stared at the blurry image of a murderer. The cold muzzle of a Kalashnikov dug through the skin of his forehead. He wanted to be brave but could taste the beads of sweat pushing through glands, dripping to a rest on his lips. A prisoner in his own body, he had become the one thing he had despised the most.

A coward.

The gunman's eyes narrowed, reading the pathetic excuse of a man's thoughts. He braced himself for the rifle's recoil and let a smile grow within his tangled beard.

"Sergeant! What do you want to do with him?"

This red was new, much bolder than the pastel shades he had grown accustomed to, much more vibrant than the dark blood. It was a uniform swathed in various aurated medals and adornments with all the texture of a moth's mottled wings, wrapped around a senior officer inspecting the escapee.

His youthful eyes darted over the twitching muscles and mud-caked skin with deceptive concern.

"Just leave him," he said, pointing to the circling convoy of avian scavengers above. "Let the vultures fight over his liver. With any luck he'll still be alive when they peck it out of his body."

They left, their boots squelching in the mud, their laughs trailing off into the distance.

Freedom. It was worth the agony, the torture he had endured and was sure to endure as he met the cold stares of the buzzards perched upon lifeless branches, inching closer towards him, only ever flapping their wings and retreating when he writhed in pain, still showing he had a little life left in him. He had almost given up the struggle, allowing them to circle him, protecting him from other hungry animals looking for an easy meal.

He was theirs. They found him first.

His curiosity became his savior as a glint of light passing through the progressively darker clouds hit the corner of his eye. He consumed all the energy he could to lift his body off the ground, his groans scaring the vultures off to a safe distance, and stared at the glistening object, the cold steel warmed by blood passing through dead fingers, heat dissipating from veins rapidly as icy droplets fell from the sky and washed the dirt away.

Unsure how he had done it, he planted four of his limbs into the ground, two hands and two knees sinking in the earth as he began to crawl.

Closer...

Closer...

The rain fell harder, faster, accompanied by powerful torrents of wind, seeping into his sleeves and chilling him to the bone.

Closer still...

Bolts of electricity pierced through the purple sky like flash photography. As time grew older, the stench of sweet blood grew stronger, as did the clarity of the images impinging upon his retinae; seconds of darkness then nanoseconds of light, the dead body growing in size as he drifted closer.

He was in touching distance, lifting his palm in the air to push the jet strands from his face, adhered together by the rain. Halting through fear and confusion, he cursed himself. Here he was, in the freezing cold, escaping death on more than one occasion after five years of torment, staring through the eyes of a dead man... and he still did not understand a thing. Who he was, where he was, what was happening. The questions eluded him, belittled him, making him feel stupid.

One word rolled off his tongue, unaccompanied by comprehension or cognition.

"...Zack..."

He turned to face the glistening object and pried it from the dead fingers. It was as light as a feather despite its immense size.

Staring hard through its shiny surface, past the blood stains and the mud, he found an imposter. Malnourished, tired and cold with a terrified pair of eyes, glowing like the demons in his dreams.

Dropping the object in fear and falling back, he stared over the green and black horizon. The rain spared nothing but the underside of the mass of floating concrete, heavily fenced and guarded with gunmen. He had been dragged through this strange new world in the hope of finding freedom –

Alone, hungry and confused, deep down he knew that freedom was the last thing he needed.


	14. Irony

**14**

**_Wednesday, October 20th, 11:09am – Tifa's Seventh Heaven, Sector Seven _**

She awoke in the dusty crypt, fluttering her lids excessively in an attempt to acknowledge her surroundings, letting the dirty floorboards, the moth-eaten lace veil over the window and the lifeless ceiling-fan know she was a stranger in their presence. The dull pain in her head had disappeared a while ago, melting into the forgotten like a dream in the morning.

She sat up and stared at the shafts of street lamp light pouring in through the window, tinted by dirt and grime to an insufferably ugly brown. It played over holes in floral wallpaper thirty years past its sell by date and drenched the dull brass that formed a somewhat familiar set of scales, reflecting over one plate in favour of the other. It was a funny looking object, completely devoid of any aesthetic charm, with what appeared to be hieroglyphic inscriptions printed over the base.

She stood and inched closer, fearful that the two brass cherubs lying over the arms of the scales would somehow come to life and attack her. There was something about them, something she could not put her finger on that sent a shiver through her spine. It may have been the ethereal force that applied itself over the right plate, depressing it below the other to create a state of imbalance, or the sly little grin spread across the cheeks of the cherub on the left.

No longer able to look at the object, she kicked it over, toppling it and raising more dust as it collapsed to the ground with an immense thud.

A chain reaction of events began soon thereafter with the sound of a kettle whistling, squeezing its way through the cracks in the door concealed by splintered lime paint.

She stared at the door like a newborn gazing up at its mother and walked closer to it. Two steps forward. One step back.

The man in the hallway had just cleared his throat, his footsteps increasing in volume as he stopped by her door and gently knocked.

She couldn't believe something as trivial as the smell of her favourite coffee could relinquish her status as the stranger. It really said something about the spare rooms of her bar.

Loose change had become a luxury over the past few months but she still knew she had to do something about the back and upper rooms of the Seventh Heaven. It was a scary thought but, if she did not act accordingly, the one thing that kept her sanity in check could eventually become the source of her overpowering desire to escape.

Freedom sounded blissful; to be back home in the mountains with her friends and family. But freedom also came at a price. She had new friends, new family in the people of the Slums. She could not walk away from them without the guilt festering away in her gut like a disease. It would eat her alive.

Bliss aside, freedom was the last thing she needed.

She hurried towards the door and opened it a fraction, staring at the suit emerging from the shadows with two steam-belching mugs and a worried expression. Opening the door fully, she granted him access, trying not to look too embarrassed in the process.

"I found your key in your purse. I hope you don't mind."

She closed the door and dropped back onto her mattress, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees.

"To be honest, I think I would have preferred it if you broke in."

"I'm sorry," he said, handing her a mug, waiting patiently for her to reluctantly accept his peace offering. "I knew taking you to my place would be strange so I brought you here instead. After standing outside with you draped over the cinder blocks for fifteen minutes, I knew I had to get you inside and I thought taking the keys out of your purse would have been the lesser of two evils."

"Don't sweat it," she said, taking a cautious sip of her coffee. "How long was I out?"

"About an hour or so. I had my doubts about taking you to the hospital but when I heard that thud," he said, pointing to the scales, "I got the feeling you'd woken up. I came over to investigate but didn't want to do so empty-handed."

"Quite the gentleman," she said.

"So, I made an extra cup of coffee and prayed that the thud wasn't related to you collapsing."

She smiled and took another sip, this time letting the strong flavour of the coffee dance over her tongue rather than worrying about what he may have put in it.

"Milk, no sugar. Just the way I like it."

He nodded along.

"Me, too."

They sat together, almost enjoying the silence as they nursed their coffees under the comforting veil of darkness. He had become nothing but a silhouette by the window, a cardboard cut-out that emitted a cute little slurping noise when he took a sip, and in all honesty, even though she would hate to admit it, she felt safer in his presence. Possibly even happy.

"So, does this happen often?"

She let a puzzled expression form over her face, not fully aware of his motives for asking the question. The way he had stopped mid-speech in the cafe, his eyes converging to the sugar bowl to focus on something other than her sudden onset of shock should have been enough for them both to realise he had put his foot in his mouth. Something was telling her now that he was either pretending to be an idiot for her sake or that he had genuinely repressed a mere hour-old memory to preserve his sanity.

"First time," she responded, after a long pause. "Well, there was this one time when I was fourteen. I collapsed when I saw Russo Valentini stepping out of his tour bus with a kiss blown my way. He could have been aiming at the other six hundred screaming girls behind me but I didn't care. As far as I was concerned that kiss was just for me.

"Man, I was such a loser."

"I'm sure everybody can look back at their past and find something cringe-worthy that they'd rather forget. I mean, when–"

"So, are we just gonna act like this whole thing never happened?" she interjected, setting the mug on the floor and standing up.

"Probably," he replied, straining to find justification. "I tend to bury my head in the sand when it comes to personal problems."

"In that case, I think I need something a little stronger than coffee. You hang tight," she said, halting by the door as he shuffled off the windowsill and grasped her arm.

"But," he continued, "right now I don't even see a problem. You and I are just... _friends_, right? It's as simple as that."

Contradictorily, the simple matter of fact was that nothing ever was _as simple as that_, leaving her with the complex task of finding a way to believe him.

_A lonely women with abandonment issues on one side of the enemy line staring at an emotionally obscure man, falling for every woman that shows him the slightest shred of affection, can really be nothing more than friends_?

_Not in this lifetime, honey_.

"I could still use a drink."

"At eleven thirty in the morning?"

She looked back at her arm, subsequently obtaining freedom from his grip, and whispered, "You are in no position to lecture me on what's right or wrong. If I want to kill off a few of my brain cells one sip at a time then I will, regardless of whether it's eleven thirty in the morning or eleven thirty at night."

She pushed open the door and rushed to the bar, feeling his shadow stalk her through the darkness as he followed silently, trying to formulate a new plan to prevent her from falling over the dangerous precipice that he had failed to miss on more than one occasion. It would have been easier if he wasn't so terrible with words. And she was right. After downing a bottle of brown liquid, the name of which still eluded him, earlier this morning, he had no right to judge her.

And so, thinking ever silently, he found a stool splashed with artificial light and watched her fill a glass with red wine.

Taking a soothing gulp, she met his stare, upset that the shame had gotten to her.

"Look, I appreciate you bringing me back safely but I think this whole thing was a gigantic mistake. I'm sure I can look after myself now so it would be best if you just left."

He needed something to grab onto to stop the growing currents of mistrust from carrying him downstream away from her bar and out of her life forever. She needed somebody at this moment in time to usurp the alcohol in its position as a comforter and he'd be damned if he was going to let it be anyone but himself.

He barely thought before he said, "You know, Jake wasn't always so quiet..."

She soon found herself pouring him a glass of wine, nudging it in his direction as she said, "Keep talking."

"He was always so joyous, so exuberant and inquisitive. There never was a dull moment."

She smiled along with him.

"So, what happened?"

The micro-torrents in his glass became the perfect object to fix his gaze upon. He couldn't look her in the eye, especially now that she had clambered into his head.

"It all started a few years ago. I was a pretty new recruit at the time, still learning the tricks of the trade and cramming morally distressing images into head-space that was already overfilling. I had to be strong and hollow out my mind."

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"It means that if I am emotionless I have nothing to convert into psychosis or paranoia, both of which are apparently just occupational hazards for the mentally weak."

"How sweet."

"Tell me about it," he agreed. "As a junior Turk I thought I'd be clever about things and take a side step away from all the gung-ho, loudmouthed, trigger-happy employees that reeked of juvenility. Then I soon realised that staying close to them would form an emotional contrast that would make me easily detectable as a possible candidate for future promotions. So I stuck with the agents scoring high body counts, kept my mouth shut and got the job done. I spent fifteen, sometimes sixteen hours a day at HQ; working on reports, editing mission slideshows, buffing the senior agents boots; anything to get myself noticed. I'd spend the majority of my day as the perfect soldier to come home, ignore my family and throw up in the toilet before passing out from exhaustion.

"In all the following years I never stopped once to see my son take his first steps or watch him play Joseph at the school nativity or be there when he hit his first home-run. And... I lied to him every day. He thought I was a cop, a superhero fighting crime when he saw me strap on my guns and leave his side, travelling through the dirty veins of the city, searching for victims of corruption and politics to exterminate.

"In all that time... I didn't even kiss him goodnight. I always told myself that seeing his face would make me weak or make me daydream when I should stay focussed on the task at hand. God, I was such an idiot." Swirling the dark liquid in his glass, he inhaled the mellifluous scents in preparation for the heavy gulp, diving into the glass and resurfacing memories. "When I was younger, I always thought coming home would be the highlight of my day. Of course, my expectation seems a little obvious when I say it now but it's amazing how quickly my safe haven had evolved into the last place I'd rather be. And I suppose that occurred right when Monica and I had begun to fall out with one another. She was getting sick of my emotional indifference; this thick skin I had developed.

"Our mutual love continued to disintegrate for the next few months before she decided to move out, taking Jake with her. She and I both knew we didn't have the energy to go through a messy divorce and kept things nice and simple. I could visit him whenever I wanted as long as I wiped my shoes on her doormat before entering her house and brought Jake home before ten. It was a sweet enough deal."

"But those kinds of deals tend to turn sour pretty quickly, right?" she guessed, her elbows on the counter, arms propping her chin.

"You could say that. She never became more stringent with the visitation rights – in fact it was sort of the opposite. She started to bring him to my house, knowing fully well that I didn't have the time to take care of him."

"And she didn't know you were a Turk?"

"Not at the time. The very first time she and I met romantically coincided with the time I was ordered to murder her, but... I got too close to her."

"So what did she do to deserve death?"

"It was all a matter of wrong place, wrong time. I mean, gunshots firing off in the slums are pretty common, but witnessing them and living to tell the tale is incredibly rare, especially if the person on the right side of the gun is Rufus Shinra.

"Apparently, Rufus had made a little deal with his father. If he made it through military school without any blemishes or the slightest of marks on his name then he would obtain power over one hundred percent of the company. If he couldn't fulfil his part of the deal then he'd be sharing his father's legacy with five others to hold his hand and make sure he would never do anything stupid again.

"I don't know the rest of the story, but I'm assuming she saw something she wasn't supposed to see and he was afraid she'd spill the beans and ruin his future forever more."

She mumbled: a faint sound of understanding, urging him to carry on.

"So," he continued, "armed with nothing more than a handgun and my less than perfect way with words, I found her working in a cafe in the slums. Trying not to get flummoxed by her funny accent and that gorgeous smile, I somehow persuaded her to leave the room full of witnesses and took her back to my car where I drove and she talked – a lot. The funny thing was that I started to talk, too. She was the first person in a long time that I felt I could have a real conversation with. And I didn't just talk with her. I lost myself with her.

"From then on I just couldn't let her go. I've tried to tell myself that I wanted to keep her alive because of the inherent good within me but I know my motives are totally selfish, as they always seem to be. Hate me if you want, but I needed her...you know, I don't even think I can explain it properly. When I decided to come clean I didn't want her to think I was some kind of monster, so I was a little economical with the truth and told her I was an agent working with an unknown, anti-Shinra, vigilante organisation sent to protect her. She stayed close to me twenty-four-seven. It was a little awkward at first but we both soon found it to be the easiest thing in the world."

"From that description," she articulated, breathing heavily, "you sound perfect together. What happened?"

"Time happened. It has this frustrating ability to change people."

"Everyone changes over time, Rude."

"But most people change for the better. At least I'd like to think that I have." He shook the cobwebs clear off his mind. "Anyway, a while after our breakup I thought things would get better but they just got worse. I can remember coming home, finding a note in shaky handwriting and Jake routing through my cupboards looking for cookies, barely missing the loaded guns and the loose-capped bottles of anti-depressants. All I could do was smile and pinch myself for forgetting to buy padlocks on the way home. I didn't pick up the phone or rush straight to Monica's house to give her an earful – I just kept my mouth shut. It was what I did best and what I had gotten used to doing.

"She started to abuse my generosity very quickly and dropped him off on my doorstep a couple of days later after she became too involved in the courtship ritual with some other man. I can't blame her for enjoying affection and attention though.

"On any other day I would have zipped my lips and cancelled my plans, but this day was special. After my failed attempt to kill Monica I had to regain the respect of my superiors that I had worked so hard to earn in the junior ranks. I was given another hit; a photographer that had snapped a few pictures of a Shinra employee on the very top of the corporate ladder with a very cheap prostitute in the red light district of the slums."

"What did you do?"

"I stooped down to Monica's level and dumped Jake on one of my colleagues. After paying my dues - murdering drug dealers and low level scum that posed minor threats to Shinra - I was finally given the opportunity to prove my worth and go after bigger game.

"My final briefing was given by a man named Heidegger. He said he would overlook the operation to see how I handled the situation. If I did well, he would make everything official. I'd be a part of the elite, a team of three handpicked Turks that dealt with presidential affairs. It was a dream opportunity.

"By the time we'd gotten in my car I'd already forgotten about Jake. Nothing short of mentioning his name would have snapped me out of my trance. I was ready. I was bloodthirsty.

"We'd laid the photographer some bait on the plate, leaked some false information to his newsroom about some shady deals flying back and forth between Shinra's men and the Wutaian government, and caught him relatively easily. After pulling him out of the trunk, I dragged him through the interrogation chambers back at HQ, tied him to a chair and punched him around to test his pain threshold.

"Heidegger took a seat in the shadows of the chamber, his cigar glowing in the darkness as he sucked on it. He enjoyed watching him suffer. If I couldn't get any information out of him I was ordered to stuff a rag in his mouth, tilt the chair back and pour gasoline down his nostrils. When I stopped and yanked out the rag, the black vomit erupted from his mouth like a volcano. He shrieked like a slaughtered pig. It was disgusting. I was starting to feel sick myself. I was starting to tremble. But, I knew my superior was behind me.

"There was an unnerving silence after the photographer gave us all the answers we wanted. Heidegger stood and patted my shoulder. I was ready to fall to my knees and scream myself into unconsciousness. The silence was killing me, slicing me open as I stood above the half dead photographer, gasoline coursing through his veins.

"The silence. It enveloped me, constricting, squeezing the life out of me. But it was bliss compared to the next thing I heard..._ 'Daddy?'_

"Oh, my God," Tifa whimpered.

"I'd left Jake with one of my colleagues working security at the Shinra building. They must have been in the CCTV screening room when he saw me enter the building and wriggled out of the agent's grasp to find me. Over-excited, he'd managed to dodge security checkpoints and employees that didn't even acknowledge his presence until he stopped by the unlocked interrogation chambers. He saw me beat the photographer. He heard me curse him and his family. He watched me pour gasoline down his nostrils until he vomited, his head banging against the back of the wall until the blood dribbled to the floor and mixed with spilt diesel.

"My legs stiffened. My heart stopped beating. I was beginning to sink into the concrete floor without any struggle. The look in his eyes... those eyes... they broke my heart.

"I wasn't even facing Heidegger when I saw the smile creep up over his lips. His grasp on my shoulder tightened as he pulled me closer and whispered a few inaudible words in my ear. It was my final test.

_Kill the man in front of your boy and you're in._

He knocked over his drink as he clutched his face and began to sob. Tifa rushed to other side of the bar and draped her arm over his back, just managing to catch his words amidst deep inhalations.

"I did it. I rammed the cigar down the man's throat and torched him from the inside like the fucking heartless monster I am... I... I told Jake I was sorry... I told him I loved him... but none of it mattered. He didn't hate me - he was scared of me. Petrified.

"As soon as I took a step towards him he bolted out of the room," Rude whispered, lifting his head off the bar and inhaling deeply. "The police found him huddling under a few newspapers in a bus shelter, alone and cold, unable to cry, unable to move, unable to speak."

"Rude..."

It was all she could say. There were no words to console him and no emotion to inflict conviction. She could do nothing more than hope human contact would keep him relatively sane. Perhaps her hands would keep him warm. He just had to know he wasn't alone.

"_Daddy. _It was the last word he ever said. It's the last word I think he'll ever consider using to describe his relationship with me. Do we call that irony?"

"Look, Rude, I think you should lie down for a while. I've got some–"

"No that's OK, Tifa," he interjected, finding a pair of shades in his breast pocket to hide behind as he stood up clumsily and searched for the artificial lights behind a door. "I've... I've said enough. I think I just need to be alone right now."

He stopped as she held his arm.

"For what it's worth, I don't think you're a monster at all. Sure you've done some bad things, we all do when we're blinded by the prospect of success; it's human nature. But the remorse is there," she said, tapping his chest. "You say all of your motives are always selfish, but you did it all for Jake. His future depended on your success whether he loved you or hated you or was terrified to death of you. You sacrificed your happiness to prolong his, even if both of you don't know it yet. You obviously went about it the wrong way, but trust me, you had good intentions."

"Thank you–"

She placed her finger over his lips.

"There is good in you. I can feel it."

She leaned closer to peck his cheek, intentionally side-stepping to softly catch his lips.

Pushing him back before his passion refuelled, she cleared her throat.

"Uh, you better go. I'll see you around, Rude," she said, walking back to the bar to settle a score with the wine bottle.

She waited for his footsteps to mingle with the pedestrian traffic before she wrapped her lips around the neck of the bottle and numbed all sense of guilt from her system.

_Life is unfair... complicated and unfair._

She began to unscrew another bottle before the bells and buzzers of the arcade machine grabbed her nerves in shock. The machine lifted to the first floor along with a familiar looking eavesdropper.

"Oh my God, Barret, you almost gave me a heart attack."

"I saw the Turk's boots walkin' away from the window downstairs. He was here?"

"How long have you been down there?"

"Long enough. You gonna answer me or not?"

"I fainted on the plate, I don't know what happened and it's nothing so don't ask. He brought be back down here and we got to talking. I'm learning a lot about him."

"Really," he said, staring at the smudged lipstick on an empty wine glass. "I assume you're stickin' to the plan. You think he's fallin' for it?"

She took a long pause before mustering up the courage to crack open the second bottle and splash a few drops into a fresh glass. Staring into the liquid she saw Jake's sweet little face. She would give anything to hear him talk, anything to have a conversation with the wonderful young child.

"Tifa, you listenin'? I said, do you think that bald Shinra scumbag is fallin' for our plan?"

"Hook, line and sinker," she whispered, wiping a tear from her eye.

_Hook, line and sinker._

* * *

**A/N**

Cliffhanger! I hate them, don't you?

Anyway, first of all I want to apologise for taking so damn long to squeeze this chapter out. It was about as easy as squeezing a watermelon out of my colon, trust me. But here it is in a rather raw form.

So what did we learn? Well, we have pretty much endured a long diatribe based on Rude's history. Juicy. Plus, we learned that Tifa has not been as honest with Rude as we all would have liked, which seems a little strange but, after fourteen chapters and about eighty thousand words, finally explains the story's cryptic summary ("...s_he is actually more of a vulture than they are_." What? Oh, now I get it!). Yes folks, I've been leading up to this moment from day one. Reno lies to Tifa - Tifa loves Reno. Tifa lies to Rude - Rude loves Tifa. Yes, my head is hurting, too.

Anyway, this kind of leads me up to my second point, and this second point makes me a real bastard. Now, this only really applies to the two or three people that read this story (or possibly just one - hi Ambivalent Amanda!), but the story is taking a brief hiatus. The reason? Well, exams are approaching and I'm coming to the end of my second year of University which means if I want to apply for the masters degree instead of continuing with the bachelors degree I have to get a first in all my exams. There are ten exams. Ten hard exams. That means I have to dedicate all my time to studying and come back to writing in the summer, but let's face it, you guys are used to long updates by now. Right?

Until next time folks, adios.

aardy.

* * *

**Edit: 08/04/09 - **I had some stuff here explaining Rude's OOC tendency to talk his ass off in this chapter but I'll save all my notes on this until the end of the story. I really feel like this is sub-par, and I will probably edit through this dialogue to make it neater. Until then.


	15. Fruit

**15**

_**Sunday, October 24th, 10:20am – St. Mary's Church, Upper Plate**_

Rude had never really seen the beauty of the marble arches before.

He had _looked_ at them, swept his palm against their numbing surfaces and rested against them when his fear of mingling with the unswerving flock had prevented him from choosing a pew. But he had never _seen _them in this way. Their grandiose nature never had a chance to leap out at him before The Alpha and The Omega had stolen his freedom. The haunting hymns of young children, their voices dominating and demanding the elders' attention; the stained glass windows depicting acts – simple, black and white acts of inhuman humanity – in all the colours of the rainbow; the unsettling sounds of the organ, bleating like a tortured piano; the ironically suffocating feeling of insignificance in the enormous building; the hundreds of faces trained to his, watching his every move as Jesus Christ became surrogate father to another soul, lost no more.

_The faces. Definitely the faces._

Walking through the cavernous building, his shoes clicking against the tiles, he could feel his childhood advancing and retreating little by little like lapping waves. Memories wandered before his eyes in enough clarity to own time travelling abilities, taking him back to the Sundays he would spend wiping the saliva off his forehead, sprayed from the priest's holy mouth, transposing the front row with the back as a reservation for late-comers. He could only shield his eyes with his mother's reading glasses as he blindly listened to the ranting madman, encouraged by his own power to generate an _Amen_ or a _Hallelujah_ from his spectators.

The memories were powerful enough to squeeze every organ in his body until he was ready to get to his knees and beg for mercy. But the marble arches, symbolic of souls passing to heaven, mimicking pure white gravestones in the greenest of fields, were nowhere to be found in his mind.

Finding a seat, it had suddenly occurred to him that the building had, at one time or another, evoked sentiments on opposing parts of his emotional spectrum; utter boredom and stomach-churning excitement.

He had still worn irritating clothes, the organ still bleated out in pain and the same faces, slightly older but none the wiser, had stared directly at him. The excitement began to bubble as they had stood, their feet hitting the ground like an army standing to attention, the wedding march soon playing, resuscitating the organ on its death-bed. Linking arms with her brother and a three-year-old Jake, she had made her way under the marble arches with the most beautiful smile on her lips.

Looking through the church now, he could feel nothing. No excitement. No boredom. Hoping he was just experiencing a mixture of the two, he quickly shook his head, knowing himself far better than that.

Those ahead of him turned to the scent of cologne and the sound of creaking wood. Ignoring them, he took off his shades and almost smiled, alleviating the photophobia and the need to look at anybody else. There was little more to do than to listen to the hymns and give the three of four muscles around his mouth a work-out.

He did not want to pray. Nor did he wish to leave until he had produced a valid reason for doing so. It would only be a moment or so more before his battling conscience won the war and allowed him to just bask in the serenity around him. There was no point in debating the need to worship an entity he didn't technically believe in anymore. It was always a fruitless endeavour reducing his approximate personal best time for guilt-evasion to a pathetic level, eventually forcing him into the same church under the same gaze, and spit, of Father Bradley Drake.

He folded the sides of the shades and placed them, safe and sound, in his breast pocket. They killed two birds with one stone, keeping his eyes saliva-free and also preventing anyone from seeing that pathetic guilt swimming in his eyes, or worse, the shame he felt thereafter for enabling that irrational guilt to control the actions of an otherwise completely rational man.

The sermon continued regardless of his rude interruption long enough for adequate absolution. He was the first to leave, slipping his shades back on before jumping in his car and resting against the steering wheel in a state of exhausted contemplation.

"I've never seen him like this before," Tseng uttered from across the street, passing the binoculars back to Reno in a mild state of shock.

"He tries to hide this shit from everyone," Reno replied, his jaw hanging open as he stared through the lenses. "Even from me."

"And that's a big deal because..?"

"Well, we're not like a married couple or anything. But we don't keep secrets from each other."

The shadows played over the ancient bricks holding the church together, still as strong as any contemporary unit of construction. Although the church itself was only a mere thirty years old it had received minimal funding from the council's governing body during the building process, an arm of Shinra Inc that did not wish to fritter money away on silly ideologies. Of course, the intangible concept of heaven meant nothing to a man whose feet were merely inches from the wonders of The Promised Land, blessed with empirical evidence of its existence rather than a fifty-fifty shot.

Still, with their powers of persuasion, the clergy had managed to brainwash local believers to fund their place of worship with or without tax money. In fact, they had done a good enough job to secure the use of the incredibly rare _Simoani_ stone, similar to that of which had been used to create the Temple of the Ancients millennia ago.

How Reno knew this was unbeknownst to most; the popular explanation usually involving a finely tuned conspiracy theory detector stuck in his head, continuously rousing his suspicions and allowing the storage of such trivial facts in his mind, somewhat displacing the general knowledge possessed by _ordinary_ people and thus endowing him with the title of _village idiot_ amongst assassins. He did, however, make up for this fatal flaw with a renowned ability to psychologically assess people and also with a sense of humour that, although blunt and persistently obscene, still surpassed those of his colleagues in magnitude.

Tseng, taking past experiences that morphed into words, managed to express his opinion and deliver it with the perfect amount of clichéd wisdom.

"Everyone keeps secrets. The fact that you feel comfortable conversing about your irritable bowels to the nearest person is a questionable trait of _your _character, not Rude's."

Reno lowered the binoculars, still eyeballing his partner across the street as he shook his head.

"There's stuff you don't know about me. Trust me."

_Trust me_; _the cornerstone of all compelling arguments._

"Should I be concerned about this _stuff_?"

"No, they're just the normal secrets that seamlessly join me to every other ass on this planet. I'm a pretty normal guy when you strip away my guns and whatnot. I guess you could say I'm just an upgraded version of the norm."

"But your relationship with Rude becomes the exception that proves this rule?"

"Exactly. I spend thirteen hours a day with the guy. The more he knows about me the less surprised he'll be when I do something stupid."

"OK," Tseng replied, unable to remember what Reno had said to get him here in the first place. "So he's going to church and not telling you. If he's _your_ partner why does this concern me? And please, just the raw facts with none of your bunkum."

"How does it concern you?" he responded, taking his time to think. "Well – I don't really know. But doesn't Rude's idea of atheism bug you when you see him singing the Lord's Prayer instead of scratching his ass in bed on a Sunday morning?"

"Oh, how little you know me."

"Uh..."

"Maybe he's agnostic," Tseng said, hoping the concept of rationalising came easily to Reno. "Maybe he intermittently dips his toe in theism and atheism. Or maybe he lied about his faith to protect his persona and advance his career. Or maybe - and this is the bookie's favourite - maybe you aren't the maverick detective you think you are. I mean, has he even told you he didn't believe in God?"

Rifling through his poorly serviced memory bank, he replied with a less than reassuring, "No, but–"

"Even if he has chosen a faith," Tseng interposed, his irritation accelerating far higher than his curiosity, "I see no reason why it would affect his job or how we should perceive him. Now, if we're done with this I'd like to get back to HQ."

"Do you remember what he did when he met Monica?" he asked, a verbal lasso dragging his boss back into the car and the conversation.

Tseng indeed halted, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.

"Go on."

"He bought her a gold choker," Reno continued, touching a different finger for every list item he checked off. "He put her name on the mailbox and then he dusted off his church boots to thank the Lord for this new ray of sunshine."

"I don't think I like where this is going, Reno."

"Do you remember what he did when she left him? He threw out all the jewellery, struck her name off the mailbox and dumped the church boots in the corner of his closet never to see the light of day again. Until now."

"So what's the connection?"

"That's not important, what I'm trying–"

"What is the connection, Reno?" he reiterated, breathing heavily to maintain the last scraps of his patience.

"Sir, with all due respect–"

"Don't give me that crap. You brought me up here for a reason, so stop hiding behind this bogus loyalty and stop wasting my time."

He had practiced his _guilty_ face in the mirror a million times before almost kidnapping his boss to show him this phenomenon of the human psyche. But receiving a tongue-lashing tantamount to a kick in the balls from his otherwise unruffled superior was sobering enough for him to take the situation seriously.

"It's – It's Lockhart. He's fallen in love with her."

Tseng cast a suspicious eye over his kidnapper, evaluating which of his two subordinates was more in need of his attention.

_They're both as bad as each other._

"You almost sound as though you're sure."

"Boss, he's exhibited these symptoms–"

"Might I remind you that believing in a higher power is not a symptom of some disease. I've practiced the religion passed down through generations of my people as a means of celebrating my Wutaian heritage and to be at peace with myself. It doesn't mean I'm crazy."

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. What I'm saying is that embracing an idea like religion requires you have to have a fear of the unknown and the unexplained. You have to be able to question existence and be able to trust illogical ideas."

"_Trusting illogical ideas_ is just another way of saying _faith_ and everybody has that, Reno. Even killers."

"No," he replied, shaking his head, a sincere smile of confidence grasping his lips. "I mean no disrespect, but you don't know him like I do. When we talk about Rude, _faith_ is a symptom. _Happiness_ is a symptom. _Hope _is a symptom."

"Symptom or not, Lockhart and the rest of AVALANCHE will be dead sooner rather than later He'll go back to ignoring his church shoes and you'll quit bothering me with this nonsense."

Tseng attempted to leave the car once more, failing as Reno grabbed his arm, his eyes piercing with all the gravity of a murderer strapped to the electric chair.

"Are you willing to let him go through with that?"

"How dare you? I feel guilty every day for failing to prepare him like I should have when he met Monica. Now you're trying to put this shit on my conscience as well?" he growled through clenched teeth, soon composing himself, realising he was falling prey to Reno's cunning linguistic skills. "If Rude can't cope with this on his own then maybe he's not cut out to be a Turk anymore."

"Please, all I'm asking for is a little more time. He can't lose her in this state. If I can just dissolve this lust of his I can guarantee he won't be wearing a straight jacket before his next birthday."

'_Please?' I've never heard Reno beg like this before._

_I suppose he's more human than I give him credit for._

"And where will that lead us? We'll have to break up every relationship he has for the rest of his working life. I don't know about you but that sounds really tedious to me."

"All I'm saying is that if he finds her pretty little head in a city dustbin it'll push him over the edge. He'll wither away, rotting from the inside out like a stale piece of fruit until he becomes nothing more than a hollow shell of a man. You've seen what psychological trauma has done to the apple that fell from his tree. If that happens to him..."

"He has been trained to deal with psychological trauma, Reno. He is a Turk for Christ's sake!"

"You can keep telling yourself whatever you want. Deep down inside you know I'm right."

He chewed on his knuckle, admitting defeat after re-witnessing one too many of his ex-underlings favouring suicide in his mind.

"You're doubts aren't set in concrete. If he's as mentally sound as you always profess then he should be fine."

_I doubt he'll buy that. You don't even buy it yourself. Where is this crap coming from?_

"Like I said, I spend thirteen hours a day with him. I know him like I know myself."

"So, what you're telling me is that you think he'll turn him into some robot? You're saying he'll be a pace or two ahead of the person you are now?"

Reno, unfazed, shook his head, unaware that his boss had delivered his statement in shock and disgust, supposedly with the desire to insult. No longer displaying that trademark smirk fuelled by recalcitrance, he adopted an atypical expression, almost indefinable by use of language.

"He'll mask his feelings differently but... I suppose we'll probably be the same person inside."

He took his time to digest his thoughts, observing Rude as he disappeared within distant traffic.

_If we kill his heart, we kill his mind..._

It took no longer than a heartbeat to respond.

"She and the rest of her ragtag rebellion have no longer than a fortnight. I have no authority to extend the sentence," he said, appalled by his lack of faith, the very same that he had defended and claimed to own in spades.

Hoping the mid morning air would clear his head, he took his final chance to escape, his success marred by the hot tempered retort flowing through the open passenger window.

"Do you think it's easy? Detaching everybody and everything from your life; ditching friends; only being intimate with hookers; pushing anyone away that shows you the slightest shred of affection. Can you honestly tell me that's a life worth living?"

He looked down to the floor, pretending to think, almost as though he had never been asked these questions before.

With a heavy sigh, he marched on, unaware that the confusingly heartfelt statement was more of a plea for help than a poignant argument. His reflection minified in the rear view as he left, the burden of superiority weighing heavily upon his shoulders, unable to shake away his shadow.

A mirror image of his soul.

_**Monday, October 25th, 8:48am – Mount Pleasant Elementary School, Sector Seven**_

They parted with a kiss.

He would always wait until she had disappeared around the corner before he wiped the horrid lipstick and bad breath off his cheek, fearing the guilt of doing so would eventually claim him as its prize sooner or later.

It wasn't as though he no longer loved her. The emotional safety blanket they had weaved together in the absence of husband and father existed without a single fray, keeping them warm and hidden from danger. But the natural bond, the bond formed of unconditional love, had deteriorated away to nothing over the waning year. It slinked away, following his mother to cocktail parties and golf resorts to anchor new roots in rich and powerful men. Men that wore their hearts on their sleeves and their testosterone in their wallets, nestled snugly between cards - platinum, VIP members and business – and the odd hundred Gil bill.

He did not want attention. He needed it. He needed more sentiment than a peck on the cheek and a pat on the head could give.

He needed his mother. The way she used to be.

Maybe she did it all for him. That's what she always told him anyway.

Parting with Rude hadn't initially been difficult for her with the advent of alimony cheques and an inchoate feeling of pure disgust. But when the disgust finally blossomed, she began to tear up his cheques and searched for an alternative source of income.

Returning to a life of exchanging her blood, sweat and tears for a minimum wage did not seem appealing given the lifestyle she had acclimatised to. And so, evicted from the lavish plate, she began dressing down and sniffing around the big players of the slums.

A step down from sniffing around the players on the plate. A step up from donning another moth-eaten apron.

Hugging his books tighter to his chest, he made his way over to the school steps, the only place where the other children would not bother him with invitations to join in their silly games, their transparent smiles projecting the truth of their mandatory warmth. The relatively educated teachers that forced the children into this unnatural state of welcome for the recluse should have known better. After all, he did not want the pity of a pathetic thirty-something whose daily highlights involved updates on singles chat-sites and new episodes of poorly written soap operas on terrestrial television.

The few that knew him well enough would often believe a strong lens had been placed over his mind's eye; a result of the tragic moment that changed his life, distorting his perception of the world and confusing him deeply. He, however, believed the lens had been removed from his mind's eye, allowing him to view his life undistorted, every sin magnified by his own silence, enabling him to become the perfect fly on the wall.

Yes, the world was much like the orange in his lunchbox: bitter and ugly.

Nobody would ever uncover the disturbing thoughts that percolated through his mind or understand the nightmares that twisted - or untwisted - his perception of the world and its inhabitants. But he had grown to like it that way. Seen as the freak or the outsider, he could handle taunts and the things people must have said behind his back as long as it kept them away from him and spared him the pain of the demons writhing within that gripped his voice box and clamped his lips shut, forcing him to stare at greetings and questions from unsuspecting strangers with a blank gaze that made him appear as brainless as they were.

There was one person though, one diamond amongst the detritus of corruptible souls that he was truly fond of. She was a perfect artist's impression of the innocence that had been so viciously stolen from him. She was intelligent and funny and so very kind. She filled his tiny heart with drops of affection and became his very sustenance.

Her name was Marlene Wallace.

She never said they were best friends and would never exclusively remain in his company. She had other friends and other interests, but this was her defining quality. She did not befriend him through pity and certainly not through a mutual plight of seclusion. Instead she simply treated him as she would treat anybody else.

And he couldn't help but adore her for it.

Thinking of her, he soon scanned the playground like a hunter scanning the savannah, unable to see her face or hear her voice amidst the hollering children surrounding him.

He didn't even need to be with her. Just seeing her face was enough to quell his developing anxiety in moments of need.

Now. He needed her now. Already mildly hyperventilating, he could sense a panic attack over the horizon.

Inching away from his safe spot and standing on his toes, he tried to find her.

Alas, unsuccessful.

She was not well known for her punctuality, an idea that led him to believe that she and her guardian, Tifa, would still be walking through the alley, arms cross linked with smiles glowing through the darkness, telling one another jokes and poking gentle fun at the idiosyncrasies of their loved ones as they always did.

Creeping towards the gate, thankfully without catching the suspicious eyes of his teachers, he peered around the corner to see nothing more than the smoky by-product of rush hour.

He could still hear footsteps within the cloud of nothingness and began to draw closer, satisfying his nagging curiosity that managed to silence his fear.

Wishing he could remain put and simply call out her name, he took another step, the school yard almost vanishing within the smog behind him like a city disappearing into the smouldering brimstone of Hell.

It took him five minutes to buckle under the pressure and admit she was not out in the alley, quickly turning back to run to safety, halted by a heart stopping thud.

To his horror, a gloved hand emerged and grabbed his collar like a cobra plunging its fangs into his shoulder, dragging him through the thick blanket of smoke and into the back of a van, his inability to scream failing to alert anybody.

They probably wouldn't even notice he had gone. His existence would not live in the memories of his peers. He doubted it would last in those of his mother for very long either.

Bouncing over the cobblestones in absolute darkness, bathed in his own sweat, he would trade anything in his life just to be granted the ability to say one simple word.

_Marlene_...

*****

They parted with a kiss.

It was a simple enough gesture of affection, or so she thought. Truth be told, she was unaware of any other gesture, stating that most would have been too small, as though she no longer loved her own child whilst others would have been too much, over-exaggerating a strained relationship.

Considering the circumstances, and to quote Goldilocks, it was _just right_.

Ignoring the greetings of a group of parents, she disappeared through the thick morning fog without so much as a second glance, every footstep growing heavier, symbolic of the guilt festering within her as she drifted further away like a receding tide on a desolate island.

Was it really all for him? Had he become the fuel of her greed, catalysing her materialism? Or was she just another victim of her husband's horrific secrets, fearing all aspects of love, even that of her own son?

She tried her hardest to break her icy exterior when in Jake's company but always broke down, rushing away to cry silently into a pillow, only able to think of one excuse: it's hard to tell someone you love them when they are physically incapable of saying it back.

Months later through some twisted logic, the physical incapability had transformed into a full blown desire to refrain from repeating the three simple words. It was the simplest explanation, abiding by Occam's razor. How could such a tough, independent woman suddenly become a coward?

No. He simple didn't love her any more. The trauma had finally beaten him. He was only a child after all.

Cursing herself for crying, she wiped away another tear, rechecking her mascara with a small mirror buried in her purse. After sprucing up her hair, she removed her sweater and hiked her skirt a little higher in the secluded alleyway before she jogged out in her high heels and hailed a cab.

"Where to, darlin'?" the driver asked, eyeing her suspiciously through rear view mirror.

"Don Corneo's Mansion," Monica replied, reapplying more lipstick, replacing that of which had smudged on her baby boy's cheek.

* * *

**A/N**

Well. It's been a long couple of months. The events that have transpired recently have really affected the delayed posting of this chapter, which I would have hoped would have been a little meatier. The chapter seems a tad thin, I know, but trust me, everything that has just happened here is really important. I know you guys want to see a little more Reno/Tifa action and I'm desperate to write some more of it, too. It's still one of the central themes of the story and was my original fuel for starting this thing in the first place. In fact, my desire to write a Reno/Tifa scene into this chapter is one of the reasons for the delay. Well, I wrote their scene in a bit of a rush to get this uploaded but I hated it when I read it back. It seemed to be the same tired old formula I had used previously in the story and I felt leaving it in there would stagnate the plot. Thus, I scrapped it all and had to write a new second half of the chapter involving two characters I haven't really explored yet, Jake and Monica.

I've been using an extended vocabulary for Jake's subconscious to represent a real destruction of his youth and I also really shaded his character. His personality is a tad darker than I had previously anticipated, but I think it works well with my current ideas for the future. And as for Monica, well lets just say this isn't the first time one of my OC's has resorted to prostitution. I really hope it doesn't become an author's trademark. Nevertheless, I must tag a warning on her as a future subplot of hers will involve a relatively dark theme. I will probably have to re-up the rating to an M. It may happen in the next chapter, I don't know.

Now, let me just explain the lateness a little more. Right. Well, as you may remember I called the hiatus to study. I did that. It took a few months and I passed my exams. Around mid-June I started writing this chapter (YES! It has taken me a month to write this! It truly has been the hardest of them all so far.) and then, as some of you may remember again, I became one of only eight people to get a call back for a Master's degree interview. I had to write a cover letter explaining why I wanted to do the Master's, renew my CV and prepare a presentation. That took a week out of my life and halted writing. I got to the interview which started at ten and finished at three (EXHUASTING!) but was told I did not have enough work experience and so I was one out of four of the eight interviewees that did not get a place. It's regrettable but I got over it relatively quickly. Then I had a few days off, but wasn't in the mood to write anything. Then, after those few days of sulking, I had to spend the week in Manchester Royal Eye Hospital as part of mandatory student training. Add on a total revamping of my house (carpets, paint, wallpaper... the whole shebang) and we get to the stage where I write this bloody long diatribe and can sit back with a fake cigarette and the smug look of someone that just got laid.

Thank fuck!

Ahem. Well. As for the rest of this story... the thing is, I can see what the final picture is but I don't know where all the jig-saw pieces go. But I tend to make this stuff up as I go along, so await more soon.

Erm... I think that's about it for now. So until next time, folks.

aardy.


	16. Virtue

**16**

**_Monday, October 25th, 11:45am – Corporation Park, Upper Plate_**

Tifa accepted the role of pacemaker with relative ease as she jogged over the tarmac walkway intertwining over freshly mown grass like a complex spaghetti junction, turning back every now and then to see why Reno was panting. He chose his answer carefully, realising fatigue was more suitable than the sight of her buttocks in running shorts.

Noticing she had picked up her pace, he followed suit and pointed ahead to a fellow jogger in the distance; an obese man in a grey tracksuit completely laden with sweat.

"Hey, what do you think about when you see a fat guy jogging?" he asked, his innocent curiosity crushing her desire to be politically correct.

"I guess I think it's good that they're doing something productive about their situation rather than choosing the lazy option in a plastic surgeon's consultation room."

Barely listening to her, he nodded along, distracted by his knotted plans. At the core of them all he knew he simply had to keep her away from his rather vulnerable partner. Sure, it meant _he_ was forced to spend more time with her, but he would do anything for Rude.

Feeling somewhat sorry for himself, he sidestepped and ran at an arm's length to the left, politely separating their shadows that had somehow managed to adhere together in pursuit of their owners. He rarely ever got to the stage of repulsion necessary to relieve his own shadow from the stress of unity, a phase he usually reserved for over-righteous psychopaths, Jehovah's Witnesses and the foul smelling homeless folk that always nagged him for a bite of his sandwich. Looking at it positively, it taught him the valuable lesson of never bringing food to train stations lest the human vermin residing there, able to sniff out fresh food like bloodhounds, would salivate or breathe all over it in their drug induced stupor, bartering with tie-dyed t-shirts for another _grilled cheese_.

She wasn't as bad as all that, he kept telling himself. But he still had to keep his distance.

"So, what do they make you think of?" she asked, feeling slightly guilty about playing his game just to bring him a little closer.

There was no denying it. She could sense the gap growing between them both literally and allegorically. No matter how strong or independent she claimed to be, she knew she could not fritter her time away in the comforting veil of darkness and self pity, harassed by Barret to obtain Shinra secrets from the bald Turk, nagged by Jessie to rejoin AVALANCHE and to _see the big picture_, losing the last scraps of her youth spending all of her spare time mothering sweet little Marlene. She knew she would not be able to take the stress by herself, sure that she would rather blow her own brains out rather than spend another twenty four hours in this never-ending cycle of depression.

Just to know there was someone on her side; someone fighting for what _she_ believed in rather than constantly asking her to betray her principals for their causes. Safe in the knowledge, she would be able to sleep soundly at night.

Reno shrugged in response to her question and spent a few minutes thinking.

"I wonder why they're doing it," he finally replied. "Which straw broke the camel's back? I mean, sure, they're doing it to get fit. That's the general consensus; the p.c. thing to say. But can you honestly tell me that there isn't something far darker fuelling their change?"

"_Something far darker_?"

"Yeah, I mean, are they overcoming harassment, psychological trauma, a painful childhood? Or are they just doing it because they're sick of being alone in this superficial world?"

"Maybe they're sick of being judged by people that ask others what they think about when they see a fat guy running," she said with a slight grin, neutralising the guilt.

He raised his eyebrows and examined her profile, laughing as she finally faced him to meet his query.

"Lemme guess. You were chubby in school, weren't ya?" he asked, his laugh growing as he dodged a playful punch. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding!"

"No, I wasn't fat, you butt-munch. Not that it matters."

"Y'know, you're probably right. But for the wrong reason, of course."

"OK, so this is where you come out with your clever little speech to slander society. I've got high hopes for this one. It better be fun."

"Alright. Picture living in a world where we can eat whatever we want but still stay as skinny as a rake."

"And here I am busting my hump, jogging with you. This world sounds too good to be true."

"Really? It sounds awful to me. You sure you wanna live in a world were we promote gluttony, a cardinal sin in the eyes of Lord Almighty? A world where the genetically brilliant are indistinguishable from the genetically average until our future generations are wiped out by diseases that wouldn't have dented a stronger genus?"

"Wait, wait, wait. Where is all this coming from?"

"Just some shit I saw in the news. Apparently there's some chemical in citrus fruits that helps your liver burn fat rather than store it in your body. Some science guys down in Junon just finished isolating the chemical and are hoping to combat _heart disease_ and _type II diabetes_."

"And you think that's awful?"

"I guess I just don't want it to ruin the good thing we have right now. It'll sap all the satisfaction outta working hard to get healthy and just inevitably complicates things by oversimplification. But on top of all that, I really just wanna keep saluting my middle finger to those pricks that think impatience is a virtue, knowing fully well that they'll be too lazy to get off their fat asses and flip me off in return."

There it was; his biting wit, his acidic charm, his warped intellect. They were the perfect imperfections that made her laugh and made her cry and emphasised every other contradiction that best defined their abstract relationship.

It wasn't all peaches and cream though, and no matter how fast she could run she knew she would never escape the nagging doubt or fear that still lingered within her, that icy, heart-squeezing fear of hurting this beautiful stranger besides her, stemming from recent thoughts of a meaningful month of hard toil just for a meaningless one night stand. The thoughts had played heavily in her mind, arriving in her dreams and stealing her sleep and attention. And as time slowly passed she began to wonder whether she needed his companionship at all. Maybe she just needed that sexual release like any other human being.

Whatever the hypothesis, when she stripped the truth down to its raw, naked, somewhat ugly form she found that she simply _needed_ someone; a selfish concept that prompted her to jog closer beside him until their shadows merged once more.

Much to his dismay.

"How about we do a little role reversal?" she asked after a quick scan of the park. "So, _ahem_," she grunted, trying her best to imitate his masculinity rather than his voice, "have you ever realised how many guys come jogging through this park? We've been here for like forty minutes and have seen three women amidst some twenty or more men. I mean, what's up with that? Do you think, like, men are more vain than women?"

"Before I step into character I have to say that firstly, when you want to express your opinion by reflecting off of one of your own questions you should wait till I give you my answer first. And secondly, that has to be one of the worst impression of me I've ever heard in my entire life."

"Noted. Feel free to step into character now."

"Well," he said, his high pitched voice immediately getting a snort of hilarity, "I can't exactly formulate an opinion of an entire gender based on a sample of at least twenty-three people in this limited time and space..."

"OK, OK, you better drop the voice before I wet myself. And then you can buckle down and give me an opinion, you wuss."

"Honestly, it depends on why these people are running, just like with the fat guys. Are they doing it to maintain their health or are they doing it to get laid? More often than not it's the latter and it counts for both guys and girls. But, like you said, it doesn't really matter. If your perception of vanity is striving for perfection then that's fine. But if your idea of vanity is someone that rubs their perfection in your face then, yeah, that's pretty annoying."

"I think you've failed to notice that the male gender of nearly all species on the planet _has_ to rub his _splendour_ in the faces of females to get their attention. They are the ones that produce the mating calls. They are the ones that perform the mating rituals. They are the ones that are adorned with the brightest and most colourful feathers to catch the attention of the fairer sex.

"I mean, let's face facts. Even though we women have to endure period pains and give birth and suffer discrimination in this _man's_ world, it's still way more satisfying to be a creature that thinks with the organ in her head rather the one in her pants."

_Listen to me! I can't vilify his gender when all I can think about is ripping off his clothes and doing him right here, right now._

"Easy, tiger," he chuckled as his movement slowly devolved from a jog to a walk to a halt, resting by a tree and wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve.

She stretched out, waiting for him to catch his breath before turning to the sound of familiar clicks.

"Isn't that a little counterintuitive?" she asked.

He lit his cigarette and shook his head.

"That depends upon my reason for jogging, doesn't it?"

"So, is there a reason at all?"

"Beats me."

"OK. Well, is there a reason to smoke?"

Pursing his lips and exhaling gently, he managed to blow out three smoky ringlets, steadily increasing in diameter as they floated upward.

In just enough time to appear ignorant, he answered, "Of course. Smoking looks cool. So I guess jogging is just my way of balancing the books. I damage my body a little. I help my body a little. It's win-win."

"So, you can't smoke without feeling guilty? Therefore, you must jog to _balance the books_ if you wish to continue looking cool. And the only reason you want to look cool is so that you can get laid. There's your reason. It always comes back to sex with you men."

"I find your bigotry very offensive... but you're right so it'd be pretty rude of me to complain..."

_Rude._

She stared into the distance, losing track of the conversation and of time itself as she wandered off into a little corner of her mind seldom visited in the past. It was the little corner between her sense of humour and her cheery disposition simply labelled _data processing_ in poor handwriting by dishevelled notes and dog-eared Polaroids. The title gave the false impression of appearing important, possibly requiring vast circuitry and brain matter. But this was nothing more than a cubicle amidst luxury offices. The space where she threw insignificant information to digest later if she had a spare moment or two. A space of such relative unimportance that could only be unlocked with a very specific buzzword, like _rude_ for example.

Rude.

Rude Carter.

Another victim of circumstance.

Yes, he seemed like a pretty nice guy underneath it all. If not a very nice guy. He may have been willing to give her the affection she had been trying to obtain from Reno with all the success of obtaining blood from stone. She could not help but feel as though he would bend over backwards to give her anything she needed to vanquish her solitude and develop an outlet for the emotions that stagnated within him and confused him deeply.

Truth be told, she would never have found that characteristic sexy or desirable at any other time. But in the wake of current situations, _sexy_ itself may not have been desirable.

_What am I thinking? Rude? He's a Turk for crying out loud! He's got a cocktail of corrupt and innocent blood on his hands and enough emotional baggage likely to drive anyone insane. _

_I can't believe I even need to debate this._

A _hello_ and the clicking of fingers brought her back to the park in the presence of a smoker that had finally satisfied his cravings.

She looked back at him with discomfort that took the form of an itch spreading around the back of her neck, pulsing down her spine and electrifying every last hair follicle to their ends, soon burrowing through her belly button and lining her stomach with heat. A poisonous mixture of shame and fear clawed through her body, almost paralysing her on the spot, kindly freeing the required muscles to grab Reno by the shirt and haul him through the denser collection of trees in a bid to push all thoughts of Rude out of her mind. Plodding through long wet grass lucky enough to have never felt the edge of a blade, she could finally satisfy _her_ unhealthy cravings and answer the questions that had been irritating her so much.

"Tifa, what the hell are you doing?"

"Fulfilling my role in one of your life's greatest objectives," she replied, completely wringing out any remaining drops of romance from the situation.

"_Here_?"

"Don't you think the danger of being caught makes this all the more sexy?"

"You want our first time to be in the middle of a jogging park? Try replacing _sexy_ with _crazy_."

She pulled him to the ground and wrapped her arms loosely around his neck, warmed by his breath, frozen by the green spears of wet grass, crushed underneath their writhing bodies.

On any other day he probably would have initiated this erotic attack after so many sexless dates and so many rejected invitations to join her for coffee late at night. But deep down he still knew he was not ready. She was pretty. Beautiful. One of the most gorgeous women he'd ever seen. He wouldn't be afraid to admit it now. But that indescribable little cloud drifting in his mind still had a firm grasp of his leash, reprimanding him with its whip every time he thought of her impurely. Sure, he had no problems when he passed the bikini car wash on Twelfth. Nameless broads with no personality could set him off easily.

Tifa, however.

She was different.

_I gotta get past this, not only for Rude but for my own fucking sanity._

Thanking his _creator_ for pushing him into the lions' den once more, he began by dragging his tongue up her alluring neck, tasting her sweat and the heat evaporating off her skin.

_Maybe this ain't as I hard as I though it would be._

Pinning both of her arms together, he regained control of the situation, dominating her the way she liked, untying the lace around her shorts with his free hand. He whispered in her ear, telling her everything he wanted to do to her, everything he wanted her to do, everything she needed to hear. Placing his palm over her lips before she could respond, ending her role in the conversation, he began to chew on her earlobe as he released her hands and explored the rest of her body with his fingers.

She rolled her shorts down and wrapped her legs around his waist as he pulled her off the ground, the intensity of the moment giving him immense strength.

And she began to tremble.

She could still see a few joggers through the clearing off in the distance, the taboo of it all sending even stronger bolts of electricity through her muscles, intensifying the fear of his force in her state of submission, cycling around and growing exponentially.

She carefully placed her palms against his waist as he continued to grope her chest, slowly increasing the pressure as she pushed upward, grating against every defined abdominal muscle in a bid to remove his t-shirt. He helped her remove it once it had reached his neck, lunging forward as he sucked on her index finger, occasionally biting it with enough force to make her shudder in blissful agony.

He seemed fully charged and more assertive than he had been back at her apartment. Of course, at that time they had only been on two dates and were still bound by shackles of awkwardness. They knew each other better now, intimate details of their past and their future, of their dreams and ambitions. They knew what made the other tick and how to press one another's buttons. This was no longer a plea for mercy. It was more of a natural act of love.

The more she said it the less plausible it became. Of course it wasn't a natural act of love. It wasn't even a natural act of sex. He was simply following the organ in his pants so that she could ignore the one in her head.

And it wasn't working.

She had been picturing Rude's broad shoulders tapering down to bulging muscles replacing and beating Reno's slim physique. He controlled his strong hands, sweeping gently over her breasts rather than grabbing and squeezing them as Reno was so fond of doing. She could picture him taking his time to please her, comforting her rather than dominating her. Kissing rather than biting.

Making love rather than fucking.

Reno pushed his body off the ground and took a split second to stare into her eyes, drowning in her joy. He had taken her from the darkest depths of depravity into his world that, although slightly skewed from reality, was still an accurate depiction of his true emotions, masked by a fear of expression. The smile on her face, the sparkle in her eyes and the affection she continually gave him combined with this new element of excitement had finally melted the fine layer of ice around his heart.

He had just recently cursed the _Lord_ for giving man vast brain space, allowing them to only use ten percent of it and then saturating most of that ten percent with school uniforms and booby-tassels. But there was more in his head than he could ever imagine. More locked away and buried deep for safe keeping, fearing the light and loud noises. It contained the greater aspects of his personality, those sealed in after witnessing torture and countless murders; an occupational hazard. But her smile and that simple look in her eyes became the key. And they had always been there, invisible to the man that looked away, burying his head in the sand when things got a little too serious.

Now he knew what he had missed and the torture he had put himself through. If he had just looked at the honesty in her eyes and ignored the distorting lies in his own, he knew together they had no reason to fear the vulnerabilities of falling in love. Not any more.

With a grin, he looked down to his crotch and back up to the sky, mouthing the words _Thank you, God_.

"Y'know," he eventually whispered, kissing her hand in uncontrollable fits of exuberant laughter, almost breaking her beautiful trance, "I think I'm falling in love with you, Lockhart."

"I think I'm falling in love with you, too, Rude," she sighed softly, a smile of accomplishment seizing her lips, her mind floating in cloudy dreams still unaware of the enormous blunder she had just made.

And just like that, in one fell swoop, she had reminded him why he had tried so desperately hard to keep his distance from her over the past month. Flashbacks of heated debates, false promises, cheap hookers, stern reprimands and sleepless nights suddenly spilled forth, inducing a nauseated growl to escape his lips.

Acting and pretending to be an aloof jerk had been easy before. Now he had to bite his tongue just to keep his cover.

"Who – who the fuck is _Rude_?" he barked, his entire body quaking in anger.

_No. Not anger. I could never be angry with her. I guess I'm just... disappointed._

_So, this is what it feels like to come second, huh? _

_Fuckin' sucks. _

She could still taste his smoky breath on her lips as she stared at him, leaning over her on all fours, both unable to think of a single thing to do or say.

"Oh my God, Reno. He's just a friend, I swear. It's nothing. Just a slip of the tongue. Shit... I-I'm so sorr–"

"Save it," he uttered, showing her his brave smile, his brave laugh, masking his pitiful pain once more.

She had dragged him into the woods like a lunatic in order to get her mind off that Turk, somewhat expecting Reno to fail once more and give her mind something else to chew on. Her mind, however, could not be fooled so easily, ironically illuminating the fact that being controlled by the organ in her pants would have certainly been more preferable right now.

She watched him search for his clothes covered in mud, sweat and the dishonesty of her touch, realising there was nothing she could say to make him understand how much he, and how little the Turk, meant to her.

He quickly redressed and knelt down beside her naked body, now cooling, freezing without his body, his warmth and love. He pressed his dry lips against hers, a kiss as awkward as their first, his memento of the man he could have been –gone – hidden under new layers of black ice encapsulating his barely beating heart. A final kiss to remember her.

The kiss of death.


	17. Status

**17**

**_Monday, October 25th, 2:56pm – Tseng's Office, TURK HQ, Shinra Building_**

"Tuesti. To what do I owe this pleasure?" Tseng asked, throwing a few files on his desk as he entered, dismissing the need to sugarcoat his irritation.

Reeve turned back in awe, sure that something terrible must have occurred. Granted, the Turk's bitter expressions took a finely tuned ear to detect, but it was still worrying.

"He saw a few propaganda posters from the fifties and I think it freaked him out. I still can't believe he thinks the Wutaian tribesmen have substituted their grass skirts and poisoned darts for combat armour and nukes."

Tseng stood beside him, unable to ignore the racial slur.

"The Wutaian people still pray to idols and burn joss paper when their soldiers die, following silly ideologies that are as old as time itself. But what do the Midgarians do? Pray to a carpenter's son and burn incense?" he said, taking another sip of his coffee before delivering his closing line and putting Reeve firmly in his place. "Those _tribesmen_ are as barbaric as you and me. They're merely less technologically advanced."

"I meant no offense. I'm just trying to say the old man's finally lost it."

"_Finally_? I could have told you that, years ago."

He glowered at his cup of lukewarm mud before placing the polystyrene container on the window ledge, starving his brain of caffeine to spare his digestive system.

"You know, I've always wondered why you executives drink fresh coffee from pure beans in your own personal mugs when I get this liquid cathartic that probably looks more appealing on the way out."

"It's all a matter of status," Reeve replied, his arms folded over his chest as he continued to gawk at the grey void out of the window, almost fearful of descrying Mother Nature's secrets in the dense collection of rain clouds.

"I see. I was unaware of the stature one could receive via number-crunching and hiding in the robotics centre."

"Yeah, well, you get paid more than I do so buy your own damn coffee."

Tseng sighed heavily and gently tapped his forehead against the window, cooled by the icy touch of the rain clouds.

"God, I love the sound of rain," he uttered, his head still against the window. "I especially love it in the morning when there isn't a soul to besmirch the bliss with their foul noises. I open my windows and smell the water on the stone. I listen to the tranquillity. I feel the creativity, the energy, the life simply flowing within me. It's truly invigorating.

"And, as we stand here sixty stories above a floating city trapped in the chaos of the icy clouds, we're too high to hear anything more than a passing aircraft or two."

"OK, I wasn't going to ask before, but are you alright?"

"I guess I've been in better moods," he replied, throwing his half empty cup of coffee in the trash before falling into his chair, his hands draped over his face.

"Well, I doubt your mood is likely to get any better. The only reason I'm up here is to give you a little heads up regarding _Gya Ha Ha_. The word's out that he's pissed about something."

"There's something new. Go on."

"Apparently your department hired an emissary to keep an eye on the political situation around Corneo's mafia down in the slums. Don't ask me why. Anyway, he informed his liaison up in the organisation about some woman named Monica Gauthier.

"The name means nothing to me, but the word spread like wildfire to and around our office. So, taking a break from the _exhaustion_ of number-crunching, I decided to come down here and see what all the commotion was about. When I did, I saw one of the secretaries mentioning it to Heidegger. The asshole flipped and slapped her in the face so hard she fell off her chair. Talk about psycho."

"This is just perfect. I've been stealing data and corrupting evidence to keep her life a secret for the past six years and the stupid woman just parades around the slums looking to get killed.

"No, it's not her fault. I should have ignored Rude's biased judgement and forced her to leave the city while she still could," Tseng sighed, sinking further into his chair. "So where is she? What does he know about her?"

"I don't know. I was hoping you'd shed some light on the situation."

"If a name can spread so quickly around here, I'm guessing sensitive information will travel at the speed of light."

"Don't worry, I get it."

"Listen, Tuesti, thanks for the heads up but I think I'd prefer it if you left and spared me the humiliation of being reprimanded by the president's overzealous guard dog before a live audience."

"No problem. I was about to leave anyway; I think I can smell him getting off the elevator. Good luck."

_I don't need luck. I need a new career._

Watching the door close, he waited patiently for the corpulent ramrod to barge in, spitting and drooling over the refurbishments and sullying the air with his cigar smoke.

Soon enough, the framed pictures on the wall began to rattle with every dull thud from the reception. Heavy boots encasing even heavier feet slammed against the woodwork with all the potency of a pair of battering rams, their volume increasing rapidly, aided by huffing and snorting that better suited a bull.

Already in a foul mood and armed to the teeth, Tseng would enjoy playing the matador today. Of course, he knew Heidegger would be unable to assert his authority over a person that did not fear him, a somewhat sad realisation. After all, Tseng's sour disposition had sharpened his swords.

They were ready to carve through the bull.

Alas, after a deep, cleansing breath, the Turk could not help but laugh and leave his gun cabinet untouched. The vacuous threats, all perfectly valid for cataloguing and distributing to stroppy teenagers, reminded him that confidence and grandiloquent responses alone would take down the Goliath quicker than a slingshot - or a bullet - ever could.

And with none of the mess.

He crossed his legs and assumed a relaxed posture, barely flinching as Heidegger booted open his door.

Slowly looking up from his paperwork, he produced a wry smile.

"Oh, I didn't hear you come in. Please, take a seat. Let me get you a little green tea, it's truly splendid."

"I don't want any tea, you fucking sissy!"

"Sir," he replied, emphasising his sophisticated accent, "may I remind you that those that have poked and prodded every rotting orifice of fallen friends and enemies in warzones are not sissies. Those that can torture and manipulate the minds of world leaders with nothing more than a photo album and an extensive vocabulary are not sissies. And those that drink green tea are certainly not, by no means of the definition, _sissies_."

"Quit your yapping and listen to me!" he boomed, pounding the desk ham-fistedly. "I want you to close that mouth and open those ears because you've got some explaining to do."

"And how, might I ask, am I supposed to explain anything with my mouth closed?"

Heidegger stood and composed himself, a bizarre move of intelligence and poise. Deflecting the insult, he began to walk around the office, inspecting the Wutaian ornaments and artwork scattered around, adding a dollop of culture to the seemingly bland room.

He sneered at the bold colours of the enlarged wooden mask above the doorframe as though an evil medicine man was glaring back at him, waiting for him to turn before he summoned his black magic and placed a hex on him.

"I've learned that you don't respond to discipline the way my others subordinates do, Tseng," he said, wiping his finger over the rim of an electric-blue surf board. "Look at this place. You're just a pretentious, foreign freckle on this wonderful Midgarian ass."

He continued, awkwardly plucking a few strings of a priceless violin.

"So you saved the president's life once, big deal. The man swallows a forkful of pork too quickly, you perform the Heimlich and all of a sudden he's your friend rather than your employer? It's pathetic. _He's _pathetic!"

"You mean he isn't foolish enough to let you manipulate him?"

"What I mean is he's a stubborn old coot and it's about time we got some fresh blood on the throne. Someone young, bold, intelligent. Someone like Rufus Shinra," Heidegger responded, inching ever closer to Tseng. "And when he eventually takes the reins and controls this empire, I promise you, I will kick you out of my city and back into that fucking jungle you call home with a big, fat smile on my face."

"It seems predicting fortunes is your forte. You should really give Tuesti a hand with the development of that contraption he's overseeing. But in the mean time, I'm pretty busy, so I'd really appreciate it if you could either tell my why you're here or leave."

"I've said more than I need to. But I think you might like to know that the vice president is landing from Junon in half an hour. He and I have a lot to talk about."

"I'm sure you do," he replied, returning back to his paperwork.

"One last thing. I want all, and I mean _all_, of the past month's documents on this Lockhart investigation on my desk by tomorrow. I wanna know what kinda heat she's packing before I officially terminate this operation. Until then... well, you better just watch your back," he growled, leaving with a sense of satisfaction, matching the Turk word for word in their verbal duel.

Waiting for only a minute or so, Tseng brushed the clutter of his desk aside and reached for his phone, soon slotting a few sheets of paper into a shredder to cover his conversation.

"Rude, I've got bad news and even worse news. Which do you want to hear first?"

**_Monday, October 25th, 3:34pm – Wall Market, Sector Six_**

Rude sprinted through the streets with enough purpose to blend in like oil in water. His initial plan had involved taking a chopper to sea level, allowing him to stalk through the arteries of the city to the heart of Don Corneo's territory, taking his time with deliberate movements to stay under the radar. Unfortunately, the only helicopter pilot within the organisation he trusted had somehow vanished off the face of the planet, leaving him with no other option than a train ride and a mad dash through open sewers and the market stalls of merchants adding their stentorian voices to the din of the slums.

The heady smells of burning spice rolled through the humid air, mixing with sweat and sewage, affronting his senses and forcing him to travel through back alleys, his shoes clapping against the dirty water as he ran.

The bad news, replaying verbatim in his mind, shovelled more coal over his fire, increasing his celerity.

_Your ex-wife was spotted around Corneo's mansion. God only knows what she's doing there. Whatever the reason, if he finds out about her connections he's likely to hold her hostage; his ransom probably orientated towards discovering the snitch that's been selling his secrets to our officials. _

_ If I were anyone else, she'd be worth sacrificing._

He took the long route to the outskirts of Wall Market, stopping briefly to catch his breath and to find his bearings, lost in a maze of dilapidated buildings and electric fences.

Ignoring the beady eyes and devilish grins of petty thugs, he ran from the shadows of the backstreets into the sea of humans, crawling around litter and priceless junk like a swarm of insects, squeezing past them to prevent the even worse news from becoming a reality.

_I just had a brief discussion with our so called leader. He knows about Monica and, worse still, may even inform Rufus. We all know that Junior has Heidegger's balls in a vice, so I doubt he'll tell him straight away. But to be on the safe side, if you still have any feelings for her, get her out of there before she gets killed._

He slowed to a stop by the ornate arches of Corneo's mansion; an ugly construction of greed and malice.

A man of crime, Corneo lived in a gated community of sex and drugs behind armed guards and statues of holy dragons, capable of devouring stars and breathing fire, striking fear into the hearts of the lowly citizens.

Rude advanced past the stone creatures, halted by a baton striking his chest. Stunned, he couldn't imagine a fool unable to recognise a Turk without his blue suit.

"Just where do you think you're going, buddy?"

Rude looked over at the other guard sat on the wall, smoke escaping his lips as he laughed.

"I'm here to see Corneo."

"Listen, buddy, there's only two kinds of people that walk through those doors: associates of The Don and fine ass bitches. Now, which one of those are you?"

"What?"

"I personally know all of The Don's associates, so that can't be it. And, well, you may be a bitch but you ain't fine, am I right?" he chuckled, looking back at his partner, now laughing even harder, exposing a few gold teeth.

"So, punk," the guard grumbled, grabbing Rude's jacket, abiding by the rules of slumdog hospitality, "just who the fuck are you?"

"Me?" he said, shooting the guard's knee cap into thirty fragments. "I'm a killer with a short fuse."

The guard screeched in agony, falling to the floor under his own weight, his lower leg barely connected to the upper by a few tendons and muscle fibres. He grabbed at pebbles cemented into the earth and pulled them to drag his body further from the smoking barrel of Rude's firearm, drenched in a pool of his own blood congealing in the dirt.

The other guard let his jaw hang open, his cigarette falling to the floor before the pumping fight or flight response forced his hand to draw a weapon, albeit shaking with excess adrenaline. Before he could say or do anything to assert any control over the situation, a chubby fist knocked the gun from his fingers.

"God damn it, are you stupid, boy? If there's anything your momma ever taught you, it's never to point a gun at a fucking Turk!"

Corneo looked down at his fallen guard, still squealing and writhing in agony.

"I suppose this is what I get for hiring kids off the street. Food and wine alike, one must never buy cheap security."

"Monica Gauthier," Rude interjected. "Where is she?"

"You expect me to know names? Do I look like a fucking gentleman to you?"

Placing his gun back in its holster, Rude slowly removed a wallet from his jacket pocket. Allowing it to fall open, he showed The Don a picture of Monica; a photo booth smile against a pure white backdrop.

"Oh my, she's quite a beauty. You're a man of good taste. And there I was thinking you Turks were too busy to use your wieners."

"Just tell me where she is."

Corneo tugged at his silk robe as he recounted the events of the day, switching into film noir mode as though the neon lights bathing him in over-stimulating colours had transformed into a grainy, greyscale cover.

"I knew there was something special about her when she walked through the door. Boy, I tell you, I like women with long legs. And that Monica of yours – well, let's just say I wanted to shimmy up one of her legs like an island boy searching for coconuts–"

Feeling the cold metal of a gun press up against his crotch, Corneo soon returned to the real world, his trench coat and charm re-exchanged for the loose floral robe and panic. God only knew why he chose never to wear a bulletproof cup or steel chastity belt around the psychopaths that all knew his weak spot.

"Sh-she's down at the Honey Bee Inn. Room sixteen. Y-you can take my pass card, OK?"

Rude delicately slipped the glittered pass to the town's other house of smut from Corneo's breast pocket, dreading the thought of the depraved acts occurring behind the doors it opened.

"Shit," Corneo mumbled, rearranging his underwear over rolls of fat. "I was gonna keep her for myself but the little bitch just wanted to get as far away from me as possible."

"I suppose she has good taste, too," he replied, perching his shades over his nose as he walked away.

**_Monday, October 25th, 3:52pm – Honey Bee Inn, Sector Six_**

Monica wiped the blood off her lip, only realising her teeth had broken the skin as the warm drops tickled her chin. The pain was almost a release for her, another way to transport her mind to any other world where she could formulate her own _happy ever after_.

The dream was almost as idyllic as the idea of achieving it. The best she had managed so far was another realm of darkness and suffering, a parallel universe of pain with no loss of dignity.

At least she had that much.

Trying not to scream, fearing the anger of her client, she clamped her eyelids shut, wishing he would just finish and clamber off her so she could collect her money and crawl into a tub, scrubbing away her sins with piping hot water.

She prayed for mercy. For forgiveness. For a miracle. Not to God or any other celestial being in particular. She simply allowed her agony to radiate off her soiled skin; a silent plea in a thousand different tongues.

And as though a soul had heeded her call, she soon felt the air caress her back like a beautiful zephyr of salvation. The dull thud of bone striking flesh caught her ear, obviating the need to feel frightened.

She turned to see her client sprawled in an ugly, naked ball on the floor under a tower of a man hidden in the shadows. He appeared far more muscular and far more menacing than her aggressor, yet she found herself floating in the sense of safety he generated.

He faced her and removed his jacket, moving forward to cover the shameful truth of her body in an act of nobility. But, upon leaving the confines of the shadows, his noble smile was nothing more than another look of disgust. He was not her knight in shining armour. He was simply the reflection of her soul and conscience: dark, cold and free of repentance.

"Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed, reprimanding her as though she was a teenager that had missed curfew for the twelfth time in a row.

She took his jacket, hiding the fresh scars on her abdomen rather than her breasts, unable to mirror his stoicism and simply breaking down into tears.

"I just... I-I didn't think it would be like _this_," she sobbed, planting her face in her palms.

"What did you think it would be like, huh? Rich businessmen making gentle love to you in their penthouses?"

"Just save the lecture, alright?" she groaned, smudging the tears and mascara over her cheeks as she wiped her eyes and sat up on the bed. "How did you know I was here?"

He found items of clothing haphazardly strewn across the room, handing them to her as he formulated an easy response to give her.

It turned out that no such response existed.

"Some people saw you here and told a few bad people upstairs."

"Rufus Shinra?"

"Him I'm not too sure about. But I do know that we have to get you and Jake to safety as soon as possible."

"Of course you do," she said, still shaking from the ordeal and a new sensation of fury bubbling within her.

It had been too long to remember since she had last seen his face and his judgemental eyes hidden behind tinted glass. Every second in his presence stoked the embers within her heart, allowing her to regain her strength and rise above her humiliation.

"Do you have to protect me like you did when we first met?"

"I _did_ protect you!"

"Bullshit. You were just fucked up, looking for someone gullible enough to fall for your con and cradle you in their arms. You were looking for an excuse. For the reassurance that somehow, someone out there could actually love you.

"No, you didn't love me or Jake. You just used us to buffer the emotional depravity of your job. And look at you now. You made it to the top, albeit all alone. So, tell me – was it worth it? Are you happy?"

He sat down on the bed beside her, staring at the unconscious man by the door, given five minutes of silence to cogitate and untangle the web of thoughts encasing his brain.

He broke the silence with a grunt as he threw her skirt at her.

"Get dressed and get out of here. Run. Get out of this sector, out of this city, off this god damned continent, and take Jake with you. I'm not trying to trick you or con you into anything. You don't even have to tell me where you're going, just pack your essentials and leave while you still can."

"What are you talking about, Rude?"

"What am I talking about? You've been threatening to do this for the past seven months."

"Yeah, but for the past seven months I've been able to provide shelter, food and clothes for my baby. Look at me," she snivelled, parading her scars and bruises for him to roll his eyes at. "Look at what I've been reduced to."

"What's the matter? No man on the plate thinks you're hot enough to fritter their money on anymore?"

She reached over to slap him, halted as he gripped her hand and threw her back on to the bed.

"Cash is not an issue," he continued. "I'll find a way to discreetly send you money every month. However much you need."

"You think I want your dirty money? I know I've become a whore but I'd damn sure do this again rather than accept your help."

"Listen, I don't care how you choose to live your life, OK? But you're going to be looking after my son. _Our _son. And I want him to have the best life money can buy. Yes, my job is dirty and it's a total mind-fuck – but I'm doing it all for him. I'm doing this so he can go to a good school, get a good education and make something of himself without ever having to sink as low as you or I ever have."

He knelt down beside her, gently stroking her arm with the utmost affection.

"I want his future to be bright. But I don't think that's possible if I interfere in his life. I've done my damage now and I have to live with it. But I still love him and I can still make a difference in his life whether he knows it or not.

"Please," he continued, "just accept my offer and get out of here."

"I... I have to think about this, Rude."

"Look, I really don't want to pressure you into this, but in about five or ten minutes a wave of Shinra's most crooked soldiers will comb this sector, looking to kill you for an early Christmas bonus. Do you understand me?"

"Fine," she finally whispered, her head spinning too fast to argue any further.

"Good. Now hurry up and get changed. We don't have much time," he said, jumping up and poking his fingers through the blinds, gazing out at the dark street.

"I just don't get it. They all thought I was dead, didn't they? I've been living under their noses for six years, what the hell happened?"

"Well, they can't exactly find something they're not looking for."

"What?"

"Rufus is coming back home. In preparation, my boss, Heidegger, dispersed a few of his closest colleagues around the slums and the plate like chess pieces, making sure they kept him up to date with the local politics so he could, in turn, keep Junior up to speed. Unluckily for us, one of them saw you down here and not only recognised your face but also remembered your name, something I doubt Rufus could even do after all these years. I suppose they get paid so heftily for a reason."

"So, what do we do?"

"First we have to get Jake safe. His school lets out by now doesn't it? Where is he?"

"I told him he could spend the night at his friend's house tonight," she replied, frantically redressing. "This little girl's house. I forgot her name, but she spends most of her time in this Sector Seven bar. Uh... The Seventh..."

"Heaven?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Good. My superior has arranged for you to meet up with his liason on the outskirts of town. Don't worry about a thing, you'll be in good hands. In the mean time, I'll get to Sector Seven and check up on Jake."

"You think that's a good idea?"

He released the blinds and took off his shades, unafraid of exposing any vulnerability.

"You're going to take him away forever. Just let me spend my last day with him. Give me a chance to show him who is father really is before you go."

She nodded, yes, against the wishes of her conscience.

He smiled in return, stroking strands of hair behind her ear the way he did before they kissed.

Expecting no such luxury today, he simply embraced her, absolving her sins and finally answering all of her prayers.

**_Monday, October 25th, 4:24pm – _****_St. Mary's Church, Upper Plate_**

Through fear of exposing weakness, Reno had never slaked his thirst for knowledge beyond the realm of proof or '_seeing is believing'_. Even so, he always knew he would find himself here again some time in the event of some evil he had done or had happen to him. Recalling the years spent overcoming his own psychosis, he would never have guessed it would have been the former of the two that eventually pushed him under the arches.

Finding a free confessional, he gently pulled the heavy curtain, enclosing himself in the darkness of solitude and personal reflection, ready for the spiritual expiation.

He took a seat and closed his eyes, waiting for a voice to sieve through the mesh of anonymity.

"What can I do for you, my son?"

He swallowed hard and gripped the cushion of his seat with the all the might of his pallid fingertips. Building up his courage, he eventually responded.

"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned..."

* * *

**A/N**

A few chapters ago, I said a subplot of Monica's would involve a dark theme but I've decided to scrap that idea, so you don't have to worry about it. I'm leaving the rating at an M though. I feel with all the sex that's been occurring I might as well. Plus, I have grown fond of the word _fuck_, haven't I? Oh well.

I'm not too fond of this chapter. It's more functional than entertaining, but what the hey.

Anyhow, see you guys around.

aardy.

p.s. The "island boy searching for coconuts" is a reference to Phil Hartman. RIP.


	18. Keys

**18**

**_Monday, October 25th, 5:07pm – Tifa's Seventh Heaven, Sector Seven_**

Thrust into the limelight, the antiquated wooden table had become the centrepiece of the room, bathed in the generous glow of a mako generator pilot light and a laptop open to a search engine set as a typical default homepage. Its surface provided support for a small girl's elbows - a peculiar little patron - rather than the upturned stools, giving thanks to a _closed _sign and the foul mood of the proprietress. Traversing the dusty floorboards barefoot, Tifa placed a steaming plate of mashed potatoes, beans and sausages in front of Marlene and kissed her forehead lovingly.

"Bon appétit."

"Thanks, Tifa."

"You're welcome, Sweetie," she replied, taking a seat beside her, returning to her computer.

With a sigh, she navigated through the old emails Reno had sent and flicked through a sparse collection of photographs they had taken over their short time together, finding it impossible to do anything but think of him. She giggled at his messages, reading through each and every one of them, unaware that she was simply torturing herself further in the comfort of the past. Every message cajoled her mouse towards the reply button, but she fought through the convoluted regret and anger to give him a little time to cool off. She had never been the guilty party responsible for ending a relationship before, so the exact length of time he required was still unknown to her. Her past experiences on the receiving end gave her little to work with at first. Every response was subjective, the level of humiliation directly proportional to the amount of time she needed.

Swallowing back bitter irony, she eventually threw the subjective experiences of varying similarity out and was left with just one. The very same one she had thought about the night she first met Reno. The one of her tumultuous fling with Stan Fredrik that began with an inconsequent glance in a library and ended with ardent moans of affection for _Jessica_ and a rather aggressive slap to the face. Remembering how she felt after dismounting him and fetching her clothes, she could only transfer her emotions to Reno, picturing him scrambling naked in the mud, the look of disgust plastered over his face.

Yes, being on _that_ side seemed simple now. All she had to do was feel sorry for herself and make a vow never to fall for the arrogant, macho, polygamous types again. But now, here on _this_ side, she could not escape the nagging guilt of humiliating such a wonderful person and ruining what could have been a brilliant relationship. Oh, how she envied men that could shake off this feeling with a drink and a lap-dance or, better still, men that couldn't care less in the first place.

"Put some newspapers down first," she suddenly admonished, her eyes never leaving the computer screen, abdicating their position as the primary sense organ to her ears that twitched at the sound of an assortment of tools clanking against one another in Barret's arms. "I don't want you to get oil and grease all over the table."

He stopped and sighed. "You mind givin' me a hand then? My hands are a lil' full at the moment."

She picked up a sheaf of old papers, the news printed upon them even older, depreciating by the minute with growing public desensitisation. After throwing it on the table and producing her best _here's one I made earlier _look, she returned to her computer, clearly wishing to be left out of any conversation until any form of eye contact would signal a tolerable level of depression.

Barret spread the papers around the table and winked at Marlene before he released the tools from his grasp, which in turn released a cacophonous clang. Rummaging through the pile of metal like a beggar sifting through mud for nuggets of gold, he eventually found his favourite crosshead screwdriver and began to unscrew panels off the machine grafted to his left arm, exposing wires; various chambers to accommodate a vast number of bullets and a ragtag collection of small ramrods and wire brushes.

"Hey, you mind if I turn the lights on?" he inquired, deciding he would no longer strain his eyes or remain quiet in a vain attempt to tiptoe around awkwardness. "I can't see for shit in here."

"Sure, go ahead."

"Y'know, I can watch over the bar tonight. You don't have to close it," he offered, flicking on the light switch, welcoming the gentle hum of the bulb that sliced through the silence.

"That's OK. I really don't feel like going back to my apartment so I'm just gonna spend the night here. I always find it easier to sleep here. I think I just like to look at the neon lights of the Sector Centre. The outskirts are just so dark and lonely."

The rationale sounded reasonable enough. Although she may have given the impression of a woman crying out for company, it was far better than the truth; the truth that would transform him into her magnified, living shadow. He was the only one that really knew of her Achilles' heel, her comforter in times of darkness, her source of ephemeral relief. After all, he had held her hair as she vomited her way through rehabilitation, talked her through the night when she couldn't sleep and researched nascent theories to keep her mind occupied.

But, alas, she was only human, and her cheery disposition had slowly devolved from honest to spurious with a returning sense of isolation from AVALANCHE. They were inadvertently taking her back to Nibelheim, back to the choking flames that razed her hometown and destroyed her entire community, to the Masamune drenched in her father's blood, to the cancerous cells in her mother's liver, to the solitude she felt at the well. In losing the comfort of friendship, she began to drift closer towards the comfort of alcohol the way she had done upon first arriving in the slums.

She tried not to look at the bar as she spoke and decided a quick smile would throw him off the scent.

"Did Marlene tell you she's going to be in the school nativity this year?" Tifa asked, changing the subject with relative ease, much to the dismay of the little girl.

"Really? My lil' girl's gonna be playin' Mary in the school nativity?"

"No, Daddy. Me and Sara are gonna be playin' the donkey," she said bashfully behind a fork of mashed potatoes.

"The donkey? Why? Honey, you'd make a great Mary."

"You know she gets frightened performing in front of people," Tifa interjected, feeling ashamed for dragging Marlene into such a terrible situation to divert attention away from herself. "I'm sure you'll make a great donkey, right, Marlene?"

"Right."

"Of course she will. She'll be great. I just hope she's playing the front end," he chuckled, soon returning to his Gatling gun.

Noticing his downturned eyes, she took the perfect opportunity to get a good look at the treasure of bottled joy behind him, staring at them with enough passion to transform them into her ersatz lover, suddenly superseding Reno or any other man for that matter.

Her predicament was trivial, yes, but her life had amounted to a series of exponentially multiplying over-reactions. She could not rip the heart off her sleeve. She could not let her life plummet so far down after ascending so little.

She could not change the way God made her.

The sweat trickled through the base of her thick hair, dribbling down her forehead as her eyes bored holes through the bottles, unable to lock on anything else, saved by Barret's voice that irregularly teetered on the verge of sounding firm yet dulcet.

"Tifa, you sure you're OK?"

She opened her mouth, failing to produce any sound.

Noticing the bottles behind him, he sighed.

"Look, I'm here for you if you need me."

"I-I'm fine, I just... couldn't sleep last night. I'll be fine once I get some rest."

"That's cool. Jus' as long as you know that you can always talk to us if you-"

"I said I'm fine, OK? Can you just drop it, please?" she sniped.

Taking his time to process a response, he simply nodded and returned to his gun, sharing a worried look with Marlene before doing so.

Tifa blew the errant strands of hair from her face and re-entered a state of meditation, gazing at a seemingly inconsequential series of tableaus in her mind, rewinding to her encounters with Rude. Residing at the very core of this whole mess – and, apparently, her subconscious – with his seductive yet innocent charm, he was nothing more than a blur. She could not quite picture his face, possibly an indirect result of an unconscious ploy to maintain her sanity or the direct result of anger-induced expulsion of his countenance from her memory. Either way, the residual, indelible after-image remained constant: the image of his shades and the hidden mystery behind them.

She wanted to blame him for everything, to take the easy route out, but the sobering truth of the matter bestowed her with a foreign sense of responsibility. He had treated her with the respect of a friend for the sake of friendship itself rather than to establish a foundation to satisfy his carnal desire. At least that's what she thought, anyway. He just needed a shoulder to cry on.

In a sense, he was just like her. And that was truly frightening. Now, whenever she looked in the mirror, he – a murder, a killer, a monster – would become her reflection.

Perhaps Reno would be willing to forgive her. If so, she would try not to think about Rude until the she was sure the stitches of her relationship had burst for good.

Fate, unfortunately, had other plans.

Hearing the knock on the door, she immediately leapt up, smiling from ear to ear, hoping to see bright red tresses through the sight-hole. The knuckles cracked heavily against the wood impatiently as though driven by passion. Perched on her toes, resting her palms high on the door, she explored the dark outer world to find the Turk breathing heavily and checking his pulse. The very sight of him sent a cold, palpable wave through her spine, an unpleasant yet invigorating experience. Still unable to pinpoint the exact emotion he induced, she gulped hard and dropped back down to her heels.

_Speak of the devil_.

"Who is it?" Barret probed, extracting suspicion from her peculiar behaviour.

She unlatched the door and prised it open to allow a mere sliver of the city to invade her senses. "Just a customer. I'll tell him to go home."

Ignoring her saturnine tone, Rude rested against her door frame and spoke through heavy breaths. "Hi, Tifa. I'm sorry to intrude. I'm just here to pick up Jake. I'll be out of your hair straight away, I swear."

"What?" she wondered aloud, folding her arms tightly over her chest to keep warm. "What are you talking about? Jake's not here."

The shades were powerless, unable to conceal his panic. Allowing every muscle of his face to succumb to gravity, he suddenly jump started and grabbed Tifa by the shoulders.

"Did anybody take him? Did you see anyone take him?"

"No, Marlene said he didn't go to school today, I just figured he was with Monica." She shivered as he dragged his icy palms down her arms in defeat. "Rude, you're starting to scare me. What's wrong? Is Jake OK?"

Splashing his hands over his face, he knelt down and shook his head, barely audible over downtown traffic. "I guess... I guess his wellbeing depends exactly upon who has him."

She shivered again, this time at his chilling comment. With his extensive knowledge of torture techniques and city crooks, his thoughts could hardly be pleasing.

The less she knew the better.

"I-I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. I mean, what's gonna happen? Are you expecting a ransom call or something?"

Lacking the required skills of prioritisation for a man in his situation, he could not help but feel slightly insulted by her insinuations. He may have been an assassin, but that did not mean he knew the ins and outs of child kidnapping. Did she think of this as some poetic justice for all the ransom calls he had made to terrified parents?

_C'mon, Rude. Big picture._

"Should we call the police or something?" she asked, simply to fill the uncomfortable silence and disengage him from his thoughts.

He shook his head, regaining his breath and his composure. "The police may be one of our enemies right now."

_Our_? When had he included her in this tiny cabal?

"Oh, my God. How far does this crap go down, Rude?" she scolded, unable to tame the bitterness that had somehow persuaded her to believe that he was responsible for every last iota of evil and corruption in the world.

"By police, I mean those in Rufus's back pocket. There's no way of distinguishing them from the good guys. And then, even if we do land ourselves with a _good _cop, there's no way they'll ever put their families in danger by joining the rebellion," he replied, reflecting an amalgam of their animosity, born of two sets of unfortunate events destined to crash like two trains on the same track. "You remember the story of my past? If Rufus finds my illegitimate son he'll use him to get Monica. By that time the game will be over. Even if I sacrifice Monica, I doubt – no, I _know_ he won't spare my son."

"I'm... I'm really sorry, Rude," she whispered, genuinely ashamed of herself.

"Shit, what am I doing here? I have to go find my boy," he uttered, rummaging through his jacket for a company card. "Look, if you hear anything or see anything or... or... or _anything_, just call me on this number, OK?"

"OK," she replied, staring at the small dark numbers contrasting heavily against the snow white card, looking up to see nothing more than a familiar, nebulous after-image.

Turning back to open the door, she almost jumped out of her own skin as Barret towered over her with a doting expression that simply did not agree with his remaining features.

"Me an' Marlene best be goin' home."

"Uh, yeah, sure," she replied, rubbing her forehead in an attempt to massage out the kinked confusion. "I guess I'll see you later."

"But before we go," he whispered, allowing the words to linger mid-sentence, unable to just come out and say it. He ran his fingers through Marlene's hair as she returned to his side from the kitchen, leaving her plate and cutlery neatly by the sink.

Tifa nodded, her glassy eyes expressing the shame of losing her friend's trust – and losing her own. She placed the card in her pocket and exchanged it for a quaint bunch of lever lock keys, each in various stages of rusting away. She swept the cold metal against her palms as she gazed into Marlene's eyes, ready to hand the responsibility of her inventory by which she earned her daily bread and by which she could potentially destroy herself over to Barret. With the inscrutable power of innocence on his side, he passed the keys over to Marlene to protect them in the safest of hands.

"Why don't ya go lock up downstairs, Honey? Me an' Tifa'll be waitin' here for ya." Watching the little girl scurry off, he turned back with straightened lips and colder eyes, his cardinal title becoming friend rather than father. "I seem like a real asshole right now, but like I keep sayin', I'm doin' this for your own damn good."

"What gave me away?" she asked, wiping the tear away.

"I dunno. But I think it has somethin' to do with the fact that the person I'm starin' at right now aint the same Tifa Lockhart we've grown to love."

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? Let me put it to you this way. I've seen that boy around here before with Marlene. He's the quiet type, right? Yeah, I always respect that quality. 'S best to keep yo' mouth shut and look stupid rather than open yo' mouth and remove all doubt." After looking over his shoulder to check for the little girl, he continued. "That Turk says he's missin'?"

She nodded.

"Then what the hell are you still doin' here? I've seen you with that boy and I know you love him jus' like you love Marlene. It pains me to realise he's a child o' the enemy, but he's still innocent in my eyes. I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to my little girl an' I don't know what you'd do either. But I know for a fact that you wouldn't jus' sit around here feelin' sorry for yourself.

"Look, I don't know why you're feelin' so down right now. Maybe we can talk about that when you're ready. But for now, you gotta be willin' to take the first step. You gotta put on your shoes, walk outta that door and become the strong, independent woman you always were."

"Here you go, Tifa," Marlene said, dangling the keys to the proprietress' own personal heaven and hell.

The sight of the little cherub roused a smile on her lips.

"That's OK, Sweetie. You hang on to those. I want you to look after them for a little while, 'kay?"

"You want me to look after your keys?"

"Tifa's just provin' to me whatta responsible little girl ya are," Barret said, as he picked up Tifa's jogging shoes and handed them to her before scooping Marlene up onto his shoulder.

"Oh. Piece o' cake," she giggled.

Barret nuzzled Marlene's cheek, his_ whiskers_ tickling her, as he marched Tifa out of the door and locked it, turning back only once.

"You can think of this as period of reflection. I'm gonna stop bossin' you around for a little while and you can choose your own fate. You can help him or help us or do both at the same time. Whatever you choose to do will feel right in your heart. There ain't no right an' wrong anymore. There's jus' good an' bad separated by a real fine line. And at the end of that line is the real Tifa Lockhart."

His toothy grin induced the small chuckle to escape her lips, choking on her own tears.

"What is it with you and speeches?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. I guess I'm jus' tryna make sure I don't have to hold back your hair again while you puke up all over the place."

She laughed harder as they waved her off and merged with the shadows, leaving her with the comfort of wise words. She fumbled through her pockets once more and rubbed her thumb over Rude's business card. The keys to her bar exchanged for the key to herself.

_Sounds like a fair deal to me._

**_Monday, October 25th, 5:26pm – Tseng's Office, TURK HQ, Shinra Building_**

Reno stared at the hazy shapes through the office door's frosted glass, making out the surfboard and a frustrated man pacing backwards and forwards around his desk. He had been in Tseng's office countless times, often forced to wait outside for twenty minutes or so to establish himself on a lower rung of authority. He always had trouble remembering his place in his youth, earning him a solitary seat for backtalk or insubordination. He could usually take a little humiliation with a pinch of salt, but gaining cult status amongst his peers as the assassin requiring a timeout before entering the office of a superior really pushed his buttons.

He continued to look through the office. He had practically lived there during the winding weeks of mission preparations: hours and hours sacrificed, conversing about _her_ within those four walls. By now he could eidetically recall her entire life story, sprinkling on all the details of her personal life no matter how trivial or pathetic. And, in a bid to prove his worth as a real agent and earn his ticket out of this twenty minute limbo, he had surrendered an entire section of his brain to nothing other than Tifa Lockhart, a daunting prospect that could only serve to irritate him. After all, she would become his first thought in the morning and his last thought at night: a phrase of downright mawkishness uttered only by actors in shoddy films and teenagers that didn't know any better.

To and fro, his head lolled, stopping by the window behind the receptionist, open to the vista of a city in crisp autumn light. The overcast sky appeared tantamount to the hue of his car; a lustrous silver colour. He could remember sitting on the hood of it that night in Kalm with her. She seemed pretty reserved as he had expected her to be. In preparation he had christened the night _the greatest date_; all chemistry and no romance, at least no _physical_ romance anyway.

His personal mission had been simple – get in, get the information, get out – varying only from the original by adding extra emphasis on the words _get out_. He was aware of the danger he would be putting himself through, the danger of walking into this relationship with the potential to kill or fall in love with a person over the information stored in his head. But, in a heartbeat (for a lack of a less repugnant term), he realised the answer was as simple as everybody had professed. Love did not have to be an exact science, expressed as complex equations of compatibility. Love was nothing more than the funny feeling in his chest. And that wonderfully bizzare feeling he had tried to repress seemed to explode as he stared into her eyes, the bright portals into the future.

In that moment, sharing the sunset with the saccharine taste of ice cream still clinging to the walls of their mouths, he had briefly explored the possibilty of love. Framed in citrus-coloured light, she smiled at his talk of angels, a smile that miraculously induced another to spread across his lips: a welcome change.

Soon after, she had grazed his thigh with her fingers, sending pulses of electricity through his skin, a shockingly seductive sensation received from a woman he knew everything about yet still did not understand. Ignoring every one of his instincts, he became a slave to this new sensation, searching for the one thing every single person in his life believed impossible.

Perhaps things could have been different if he only had the gift of proximity? If he had received this revelation on the plate or even in the slums there would be nothing to stop him from making love to her, releasing more of those dizzying chemicals that promoted confusion between lust and love, permanently solidifying his feelings for her.

But, he had elected to take her to Kalm. The long, winding, lonely roads gave him plenty of time to cogitate and lose that surreal sensation, incapable of being revived by her lascivious glances. He realised that the dichotomous information in his brain could soon merge into one.

Perhaps he would grow to love her?

_Love_.

**_Love._**

**_LOVE?_**

It was a simple four letter word, as dichotomous as the information in his brain, insinuating everything society wanted him to desire and everything he had feared since puberty.

It was just a four letter word, but in the correct context it had the power to constrict the blood flow to his groin by the time they got to her apartment.

And then, as they say, the rest was history.

The receptionist, Kathy, glanced up from her papers and caught Reno staring at the ceiling with a genuine look of wonderment.

"I know I'm going to regret asking this, but what the hell happened to you? You usually make more noise than this in your sleep. I'm beginning to get bored over here."

He ignored her and continued to trace his eyes along the skirting boards framing the ceiling, using her shrill voice as an eraser for his thoughts, starting afresh.

His mind immediately turned to his stomach, and to the bubbling sensation contained within. It was not unusual to feel this way sitting outside Tseng's office, and he would not hesitate to admit that he was at least partially afraid of his superior. As a young Turk, Tseng had earned not only the respect of company leaders but also his nickname: _Sehraa_, translated from Wutainese to _The Desert_; deceptively calm and tranquil; capable of slowly destroying the mind and body of those who do not learn its ways; becoming violent instantaneously, transforming gentle breezes and mere grains of sand into excoriating whirlwinds.

"Hey!"

He quailed in shock at Kathy's volume. "What?"

"Commander Tseng will see you now."

Ignoring her scornful stare, he quickly rapped on the door before entering, a simple forewarning of his presence that Tseng always appreciated. Treading carefully, he followed the acerbic scent of alcohol to the desk and its occupant.

Tseng smoothed back his hair with his palm, keeping his digits pressed tightly together before allowing them to skim through the air and gesture at the empty seat. Reno sat obediently, apprehensively tapping his fingers against the polished wood of the desk.

"Well, I don't know how you feel, but you look as though you could use a drink," Tseng said with a disconcerting smile, carefully grasping an ornate crystal decanter and tipping it over an equally beautiful pair of glasses.

Reno gaped at the golden liquid dribbling hypnotically within, urged forward on his seat by his desire to slake his thirst and settle his nerves, fearing the worst of this encounter. He could only express his failure so many times and, now treading over unchartered grounds, could only guess how Tseng would take the news of his top-gun beaten to the heart of the victim by his own comrade, and of allies falling into one another's traps of conspiracy akin to the events in a Shakespearean play.

He may have told himself that he no longer cared about Lockhart, but the festering rage he felt towards Rude only grew stronger. He could let the information burst out of him, have his best friend condemned and labelled as a traitor, but would that make him feel any better?

He shook his head, ignorant of Tseng's careful observation.

_What would they do to him_? _Demote him_? _Fire him_? _Dispose of him_?

_If I know Shinra it would probably be the latter._

_So which of the three methods would best befit a man like Rude_? _The poetical method? Knock out his teeth and set his dead body ablaze_? _The quick method? Fire slugs in the back of his head and dump his body in the trash with the expired cafeteria food_? _The dignified method? Pamper him during his final minutes in a moment of honour for his service with a final glass of whiskey and a cyanide chaser_?

"I hope you don't mind whiskey," Tseng spoke, suffering Reno's silence no longer by sliding the glass along the desk. "It's all I have."

Reno stopped the glass with an outstretched arm as though it was a vial of poison, which it may have well been. His eyes rolled up from the glass to a stern expression.

He could hear the trembling in his own shallow breaths.

"After you," he whispered.

Tseng smiled at his own glass and brushed it aside. "This is just for show. In my culture social etiquette dictates that the host must offer his guest a drink and pour one for himself as to not make the guest feel ill at ease."

_Culture? Etiquette? Cut the bullshit, boss, you've never offered me a drink before._

"In that case, I'm not thirsty."

"Oh, Reno, but you must. If you don't it would be a major insult to my hospitality." He only waited through thirty more seconds of silence before barking, "_Drink_!"

He was destined to die within the next five minutes whether he drank or not. Tseng only offered the drink as a sign of respect, a more dignified close to the final chapter of his life tastefully sidestepping a slit jugular or twisted neck.

Sighing heavily, he reached over and took the glass to his lips, inhaling the potent aroma, stopping only to verbalise his final word.

"_Cheers_," he whispered, downing the burning shot in one go, spluttering and coughing thereafter.

_I always wondered how_ _I'd die. I suppose this isn't so bad: going down doing the thing you love..._

Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back onto the rest of the chair, only to feel a palm striking his cheek.

"What are you doing? Falling asleep?" Tseng uttered, grabbing Reno's chin and using it to shake his skull around.

The same cold eyes stared down at him, inspiring a newly fathomed sense of joy to tingle through the entirety of his body.

"I'm alive!" he rejoiced, leaping up to hug his superior, only to be pushed back into his chair.

"Of course, you're alive, you idiot." Tseng took his seat once more. "God, the cyanide in the whiskey routine? Honestly? What do you take me for?"

"Then why the drink?" Reno inquired, sliding the empty glass back across the table.

"Because," he replied, pouring another glass and sliding it his way, "I want you to confide in me. I want you to get that weight off your chest. I want to offer you absolution. And I know that it can be difficult for a man like you – drink up – to tell me personal things when sober. So, I'm going to remove those pesky inhibitions, of which I'm sure there are only few, and watch the magic occur right before my very eyes."

"Oh," he mumbled, wondering whether death would have been more appealing as he downed the second shot and slid the glass back. "Well, there's nothing much to say, really. There's nothing on my chest. Nothing whatsoever. Zilch."

"Of course there isn't," he said, pouring yet another glass. "We don't have to talk about that awkward stuff just yet. I suppose we could talk about other things." He slid the glass over, watching as Reno hesitantly sipped at it rather than necking it back in one. "Did you hear Vice President Rufus is back in town? He's almost finished his military training. General Griffin says he really shaping up to be a brilliant soldier."

"Really? I should drop by and say hi sometime."

"I'm sure he would appreciate the sentiment if only he had the time. Right now he's caught up in some unfinished business with Heidegger."

"With Heidegger? Doing what?" Reno asked, assuming the alcohol granted him the permission to speak freely.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe they're plotting a coup d'état?" he chuckled, giving Reno his first real opportunity to practice the fabled _boss laugh_.

He smiled at first. Then nodded his head awkwardly. Then produced a strange, guttural braying sound.

He would be the first to admit that the laugh needed a little work.

Taking Reno's empty glass, he filled it once more and pushed it back, laughing all the while at the ridiculously lame joke. In his current state of mild inebriation, however, Reno soon found the funny side and began to giggle along as he wrapped his lips around the glass once more.

Wiping his eyes, Tseng quickly returned to his original state of gravity.

"Or maybe they're just planning the execution of Rude's wife and child."

Reno suddenly choked on the whiskey, spiting a mouthful back into the glass.

"I'm sorry?" he managed to express above his gargling.

Tseng brushed his nose with his thumb in a clichéd display of masculinity that insured he was no longer in the mood to _fuck around_, as the flame-haired Turk so succinctly put it. Yanking the glass from Reno's fingers, he exchanged it with ten or so A4 sized photographs, thrown to other side of the desk, fanning out appropriately as they landed.

Reno flicked through the monochromatic evidence of hypocrisy in horror.

"You know, I couldn't help but think about all of that stuff you told me the other day, Reno. Do you remember? About how the church utilises personal suffering and disturbing events to _imbibe_ the non-believers? Do you remember telling me how odd it was to see Rude, a known practiser of atheism, seeking an outlet to confess his sins to God?"

"Yes," he whispered, the trembling returning, overriding the whiskey.

"So, can you explain these photographs?"

"It's... it's nothing, it w-was... I..."

"What's the matter? Has your talent for fabrication disappeared, Reno? I might as well come clean and tell you that was the _real_ reason I employed the whiskey."

"_Fabrication_? What? I wouldn't lie. I just went in the church to... to, y'know, look for Rude."

"But you were seen in the confessional."

He fidgeted in his seat, wiping his soaked brow with the back of his palm.

"Yeah, well... I mean, you gotta look everywhere, right?"

"You were in the same confessional for thirty minutes!"

"Look, what's with the third degree over here?"

"I just want to know why _you_, the most devout disciple of atheism besides Satan himself, would suddenly find religion and confess your sins right after you blatantly criticised Rude for doing the exact same thing."

"It's nothing! It's... look, it's personal, OK?"

"What suffering are you enduring?"

"I'm not suffering, I just–"

"What disturbing event have you witnessed?" Tseng asked, his volume rising.

"I... I..."

"What act of depraved immorality must you have done to drive you into that confessional!?"

"Fine! You want me to just come out and fucking say it!?" he exclaimed, throwing the photographs to the floor and taking to his feet. "I did it, alright!?" He drummed his finger against his chest. "I ordered the kidnapping of Rude's kid!"

Dropping limply back into the seat, he stared deep into the cold eyes of his superior without so much as twitch, his body lifeless.

And so, in one simple act, Tseng showed the true power of the desert; tricking the mind with mirages; making sand seem like an oasis; daylight as dark as night; the truth more powerful that cyanide.

* * *

**A/N**

I'm so sorry this took me so long to upload. A few days after I had uploaded chapter seventeen, I already had about three thousand words of this chapter written. Then my computer decided to die for no apparent reason. Unfortunately, I hadn't backed up my files, so I lost the three thousand words of the original copy of chapter eighteen. It took me a week to find a new computer. I ordered a Dell Inspiron from the telephone after noticing an advert in the newspaper. So, anyway, I waited patiently for them to deliver the new computer, which took a further two excruciating weeks.

For those of you that have experienced this you'll understand my suffering, but I really was not looking forward to re-writing the whole chapter again. I did manage it though, obviously. You won't believe how bloody difficult this chapter was to write and edit. It took me a week! But it's here now. It may not be perfect, but I'm going to leave it the way it is. If I invest more time in it I will go crazy.

As for the plot, there's quite a bit in there. Although the main premise is incredibly thin (Rude tells Tifa about Jake then Reno tells Tseng about Jake) I tried to explain how Tifa feels now, hinting at a few elements that complete full circle, and how Reno was feeling right at the beginning, also explaining his dysfunction. We've also stumbled upon another plot twist. DUM DUM DUM. Reno orchestrated the kidnapping of Jake! Were you expecting that to happen? I never know how well I pull off plot twists. Perhaps you guys could let me know?

Anyway, see you soon! Real soon I hope. I'm going to try and finish this thing as fast I can now unless my new computer dies and I have to wait another month before I can start writing again. I hope not. Pray it doesn't happen, folks!

aardy.


	19. Negative

**19**

_**Well, here is a sentence I never thought I would get the chance to utter. Please, take a seat, Reno.**_

_This one?_

_**Uh, that's my chair. Why don't you take that one over there?**_

_Whatever, Doc. Let's just get this thing over with, OK?_

_**What's the rush? It's only nine-thirty.**_

_Well, let's just say I've been here for twenty seconds and I'm already sick of staring at that ugly wall full of Rorschach tests you got behind you._

**Rorschach** **tests**_**? That's a collection of Wutaian landscapes. They were painted by Jules Viridia. Don't you recognise them? In a few more decades they'll be priceless.**_

_Fine, you got me, art isn't my thing._

_**Reno, please, just relax. I'm not here to point and laugh at your idiosyncrasies, and not every object in this room was chosen for the aid of psychological assessment. Some people just find pictures pleasant, especially in such an aerial environment where they can't enjoy the beauty of a landscape out of the windows. It can be pretty distressing to look out of a window and see nothing more than a blue abyss, can't it? **_

_We easily overcome that. You just have to look down._

_**Yes, I'm sure you look down upon things with relative ease.**_

_Wait a minute now, don't get clever with me, asshole. I know you're trying to test me and assess every word I say from every conceivable angle, so let's just get one thing clear before we continue. When I say 'look down' I'm not implying that I look down _upon_ things, OK?_

_**You'll have to forgive me but it's my job to extract every definition I can from such equivocal statements. As I expressed earlier, I'm not here to judge you. I'm just here to pick up on the signals you tacitly send via your reactions to such accusations. Right now, for instance, it's safe to say your reaction was not exactly as emotionally salubrious as we'd all like. **_

_I know what you're doing. You're using big, fancy words to confuse me and make me look like an idiot, aren't you? _Tacitly? Equivocal? Salubrious? _C'mon, Doc, who talks like that?_

_**I'm sorry, I'm not trying to make you feel stupid at all. I'm aware that the lexicon of each and every agent in this organisation is vastly varied. That's why I take the time to personally read the creative-writing essays all agents are obliged to complete before they become fully fledged Turks. **_

_**Y'know, I can always recall the moment the impromptu tests are announced each year to the new arrivals and I can't help but empathise for you all. I remember you vividly, oh, it must have been five or six years ago at the least. Although, I must say, you are pretty difficult to forget.**_

_**I bet you were wondering what those essays were for. I can tell you now that they didn't affect your chances of becoming a Turk. They were never read by President Shinra or Heidegger or Commander Tseng or anyone else for that matter. They were simply sealed in envelopes under my supervision before I took them back here to my office and stored them in my private cabinet. I'm sure nobody would ever want to read them, but I like to ensure my promise of confidentiality is always kept.**_

_What? Nobody reads those things? You mean I busted my hump in that exam hall for nothing?_

_**Not exactly. I kept them safe and, I'm sorry to tell you, used them to psychologically asses the authors. I always find it makes the whole process of talking to a shrink easier if said shrink doesn't spend all of his time fidgeting in his seat as he tries to crack the nut that is your personality. It's nice to see a psychologist that just wants to talk rather than one that is constantly trying to get inside your head. So, I keep these stories with me and build up a profile of the agents before I meet them. **_

_**I also use these essays to gauge the most appropriate manner in which to converse with you and your peers and, looking through yours now, noticing the remarkable and colourful vocabulary you used, it seems you are the apotheosis of intelligence, perspicacity and creativity. **_

_..._

_**Care to explain?**_

_Isn't it obvious? I cheated on the test._

_**You cheated on an impromptu creative writing essay? How did you manage to pull something like that off?**_

_Well, it's hardly magic if I show you how it's done._

_**Look, Reno, I want you to remember what you're doing here. Talking to me is not mandatory, and you've made it pretty clear to everyone that you have no business being here, but you've done something so atrocious that you've been forced into this. **_

_**Now I will not tolerate this insolence any more. If you want my help you must tell me the truth. If not: there's the door.**_

_..._

_I was scared, alright?_

_... _

_**I'm listening.**_

_Look, when I first signed up I thought I'd be running the place in a month. Through intensive physical training I reached the acme of fitness my mortal body could possibly achieve and was blessed with a modestly excellent IQ of 175. In a sense I was perfect. But in this job, perfection is just a theory, an ineffable idea. _

_**And why exactly is perfection impossible to achieve?**_

_Murder._

_Torture._

_**One cannot become inured to pain so easily. The masochists occupy a miniscule percentage of the populace for a reason.**_

_You misunderstand, Doc. _Being_ tortured is easy. The pain of a broken bone can only last so long. _

_But being the torturer, breaking somebody else's bone––the pain of guilt lasts an interminable amount of time. It's infinite. _

_**I see. So you **_**do**_** actually feel the guilt.**_

_Of course I do, what kind of monster would I be if I didn't?_

_**You'd be surprised. Please, continue.**_

_Well, I didn't want to come so far to be rejected at the final hurdle. So, I thought the whole process would be a lot easier if I could hide behind a veil of fatuity. If I let people think they were smarter than me, they wouldn't expect too much of me._

_**And you wouldn't expect too much of yourself.**_

_I suppose. Anyway, I was only expecting it to last for another couple of months. I thought I could break the habit and, as you say, become inured to the pain. But here I am six years later and––what are you grinning at?_

_**I apologise. It's just that you Turks and your commander are all so similar in certain aspects.**_

_And what aspects would those be?_

_**Well, even though they are varied, you're all linked by your problems.**_

_You're telling me Tseng has problems?_

_**I know I'd be breaching my verbal contract of confidentiality, but seeing as though this is a very special meeting, and I'd probably just be telling you something you already know, I'll go ahead. **_

_**Yes, Tseng has his problems that lie in his mind and his inability to remain comfortable around people if he cannot get into theirs.**_

_You know what, that does make sense. Just yesterday he was grilling me with questions like an amateur shrink. In fact he really finagled his way into my head, although I don't think it counts if he's forced to implement whiskey and truth serum._

_**OK, I think we're digressing a little. To return to the topic at hand I think your connection with Rude is even stronger. You really are his mirror image.**_

_What?_

_**Well, maybe mirror image is the wrong analogy. I'd say you are like photographs. He's like the picture and you're like the negative. **_

_And just why the hell am I the negative?_

_**I'm not implying you're negative in nature, Reno. Was it not five minutes ago when I implicitly told you that I would test your reactions to equivocal statements?**_

_Oh yeah._

_**I'm guessing you let your hostility get the better of you sometimes, huh?**_

_Yeah... sometimes._

_**OK, I can see you're still finding it difficult to adapt to this situation. Why don't I just move along quickly to the heart of the matter.**_

_**Why don't you tell me about Tifa?**_

"OK. Let's start from the beginning," Tseng spoke, his words tailing a deep sigh of relief, enjoying the tingling sensation of white wine over his tongue now that the truth was finally out. He had removed the bottle from his bottom drawer and uncorked it in a bid to inject a little more conviviality into the atmosphere, celebrating the birth of honesty.

Reno had barely moved, frozen in an impenetrable block of disgrace. His eyes darted from side to side, up and down, hoping to descry the intangible portions of his mind that usually fed him excuses and explanations via flashing words of deception or flattery. Alone, his first thoughts almost took him by the hand and dragged him into the darkness of what had once been the landmark of his brain, festooned and lit by spotlights scanning the skyline of his skull as though it was hosting some tawdry award ceremony. Now, in the atramental darkness, he could not even see the cobwebs.

"Not that I don't trust you or anything, because I do, but I've never gotten drunk so quickly in my life. I mean, I'm no lightweight. So, what I'm trying to say is if there was no cyanide in that whiskey then..."

"Sodium Pentothal. That's the first and last question I am going to answer. Now, I'll say it again. Let's start from the beginning."

"There was actually a really funny––"

"Reno," Tseng said softly, maintaining his own brand of geniality to prove he thought no less of his subordinate.

Inhaling heavily, he nodded and averted his gaze to his fingers as they twiddled together.

"Well... I guess it all started when you optioned me to lead this investigation. You had two choices at your disposal: the emotionally deadened agent or the emotionally ignorant one. You chose the latter."

"Emotional ignorance is a far superior quality to have for a mission of this calibre. Rude would never have been able to fake those feelings of affection."

"I know. I'm not blaming any of this on you. I should never have created this false persona in the first place. I should have just been honest. I should have let on that I was just as liable to fall into her trap as Rude."

"I must commend your powers of acting," Tseng remarked, eyeing his agent over his goblet with a certain glimmer of respect. "You've had me––you've had us _all_ fooled for a long time."

Reno accepted the praise with a dampened nod and a subdued smile.

"So," Tseng continued, "are you in love with her?"

He shuddered at the sound of the odious word. It was a myth spoken of by all similar to Father Christmas and The Stork, only those mythical creatures are forgotten post-puberty and replaced by the truth. The mystery of love however remains with adults until they die. They are constantly deluded by a notion that their soul was created with another soul in mind.

It was almost funny to observe the strength of credulity in the presence of a pretty face and thoughts of _happiness_.

"At this very moment? No. I share no feelings for her whatsoever."

"But, at one time, you _did_ share feelings of love for her?" he asked, taking his glass to the sink and filling it with water.

Reno accepted the glass and looked deeply at the limpid liquid.

"Yes," he admitted, taking a small sip.

Tseng stroked the clean-shaven skin under his chin and nodded once more, accepting this vision of growing humanity within the empty vessel almost too easily.

"OK. Let's move on. I can hardly say I found it difficult to cotton on to the growing rivalry between you and Rude. Tell me how that all began," he said with a reassuring tone like a teacher reprimanding his favourite pupil.

"I think it started when Rude developed an unhealthy connection to her. He saw her pouring affection over his child––over Jake. Over the entirety of his little life, I don't think the kid has ever experienced affection of any kind from anyone. I mean, Rude was too busy working his way through the system to express any love and Monica was too bereft of affection herself to dole any of it out to her son."

"And when did he first see Lockhart pouring this affection over his son?" Tseng inquired, taking a pen to paper; ready to transfer Reno's words to the page.

"Roughly three weeks ago: a few days after the second date in Kalm. We were given Heidegger's new orders and instantly realised the walking lump of lard was insane."

Tseng resisted a smile. "Carry on."

"We both decided to defy the orders and plotted to kill her, to take her out of the equation and to stop drawing this thing out any longer than necessary. I knew it would only be a matter of time before she would dig her talons through me and drag me right into this very situation. And I'm guessing Rude just saw a threat. It was his kid's birthday and he was relegated to the outskirts of the playground whilst she was reaping the remaining scraps of love left in him. Either that or... I don't know what. Whatever he felt must have dissolved or over-intensified or must have inextricably tangled itself with his heartstrings."

"Go back a step. How were you plotting to kill her?" Tseng asked, moving on efficiently, safe in the knowledge that he had successfully untied Reno's tongue.

"There was no formal plot. We just agreed that Rude was to end this and make it look like an accident."

_**So what happened?**_

_I really don't know, Doc. The next morning he calls me up at six and tells me he's trapped in her bar. He asks me to come over and bust him out, all the while making it seem as though nobody was ever there._

_When I did eventually get down there I was met with the usual hostility. I can bring the worst out of people quite easily, whether it's through bigotry or arrogance or whatever. But this time he was expressing anger for a different reason. He was, dare I say it, falling in love with her._

_**That quickly?**_

_Well, he wasn't _in_ love with her, but I could see he was starting to travel down that rocky road. He was making talk of passing on the mission to other agents through fear of 'liking' his victim._

_**And what was your view at this time?**_

_Honestly? _

_I still wanted her dead._

_**OK, so you were going to kill her. I'm assuming you both decided to abort the mission?**_

_He did. I didn't, but I knew it would be dangerous to defy direct orders alone, especially when another agent not only knows about it but opposes the idea._

Tseng continued to scribble on the paper, his eyes barely leaving Reno's.

"OK, so if memory serves, this occurred before we met at _Rolling Scones_?"

"Yeah. I gave him a little time to cool off, thinking he would let this whole thing drop. Instead he just did a one-eighty and tried to weasel his way into the mission. I mean, I could sense he was depressed, and I would have taken him aside and talked to him if my mind wasn't already cluttered with my _own_ problems––and I would prefer not to talk about that, if you don't mind."

"Fine. One set of problems at a time," Tseng replied, striking out a line of text vigorously, hiding another smirk only for the sake of maintaining his congeniality.

"I went on another date with Lockhart to the movies. We watched some shitty horror flick, and for the whole two hours that I was there, I could only think about what Rude had said back at her bar and his sudden change of tactics. He wanted to get in on the deal after he clearly stated he would prefer to hand the mission off to somebody else. It could have been a real conundrum if she hadn't been burying her face in my chest every five minutes when I realised he was just worrying about her proximity to the man harbouring the desire to murder her."

"Makes sense," Tseng uttered, taking Reno's empty goblet and placing it on the floor in an attempt to prevent the agent's thought process from flying off on an inebriated tangent.

"So when I got back home," Reno continued, "I packed a few things and left for the slums. I signed out of the Shinra garage down there with one of the company cars and spent the first part of the night outside _The Seventh Heaven_ and the rest of it outside her apartment after she closed up. I slept during the day and maintained the nocturnal routine for two nights in a row, expecting Rude to come down and check up on her. I know he's not the type to do something so stupid, but I was under the impression he would do anything to get outta this funk he was in.

"On the third evening I was rudely woken by a parking attendant. I was forced to move my car around the block, so I drove around looking for a new spot, past the school, past the library and past the local playground. Even in such a drained state, I spotted Jake and Monica right there by the swing set. With the aid of some bitter coffee and a pair of binoculars I eventually managed to spot Rude, too.

"At first I didn't think too much of it. I mean, I know these are the only times he ever gets to see his kid and I was certain he was just taking his time to get over Lockhart at his own pace. So I left after a few minutes, reassured that Rude would be OK right before I spotted _you-know-who_ strolling down the street with an armful of groceries and her eyes off the street. I saw the two of them in my rear view as they crashed right into each other, both broken out of their respective reveries by the impact."

"Do you think he was waiting for her?"

"Can I have some more water, please?"

"I told you I wouldn't answer any more of your questions," Tseng repeated, his elbow firmly on the table, allowing his fist to bolster his chin.

"You're really not going to answer any more of my questions?" Reno asked with a curled eyebrow and a look of mock disgust.

"No," he replied, gripping the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, realising the mistake he had made before Reno kindly verbalised it for him.

"Ah hah! I win!"

"You've endangered the life your partner's six year old child and now you're playing games?" Tseng hissed, allowing his rage to engulf him momentarily.

Reno sank back into his seat, failing to prepare for the simoom stirring in his commander's soul, forgetting not to appreciate the dangers of the calm before the desert storm.

"Sorry."

"I'll blame this on the alcohol and the truth serum for now. Any more outbursts like that and I won't be afraid to break out the cyanide." Taking a deep mollifying inhale, he picked up his pen and tapped it against the desk. "So, Rude and Lockhart bumped into each other and...?"

"And, uh, and so I decided to follow them," he continued in a vastly increased tone of solemnity. "They stopped by her apartment and he didn't leave until that other AVALANCHE chick came in, I think it was at least half an hour later."

"So the woman you proclaimed to have wanted dead was now gallivanting with some stranger she bumped into on the street? I can only guess that this is where the green-eyed-monster spawned from the shattered remains of your ego. And there you were criticising Rude's fluctuating emotions."

_What can I say? The human mind is a fickle thing. But you should know that better than me, right?_

_**Well, you'd be surprised how many psychologists would agree with you. But I tend to think some minds can only operate when they have time to process the information they receive before they make an informed unconscious guess at what it means. That's why you can hate someone and then immediately love them by the time the clock's second hand has barely ticked. I tend to find that these people need some form of catalyst or trigger to spark this alteration. And the alteration may be as positive or as negative at the person. **_

_**In Rude's case, the catalyst was the unconditional love this woman bestowed upon his son, the love that this boy has always failed to receive. I can only imagine such a powerful sight having such a drastic effect. After all, he took his hate and turned it into love.**_

_**In your case, you saw this woman getting close to another man despite all your best attempts to woo her, and, although you may have consciously loathed her, you could not silence the primal instinct of territoriality and jealousy. You did not really want her but you wanted nobody else to have her either. You could not understand why she would ever choose to express interest for a lesser male when you had everything she needed.**_

_The alteration can be as positive or negative as the person?_

_Like I'm the negative._

_And he's the photograph._

_**If you choose to put it that way.**_

_**Look, why don't we move on? What happened next?**_

_Uh... well, yeah, I was feeling pretty crappy. So, I took for the plate in search of something––anything––to help me get over this bizarre feeling. One of my favourite haunts is Liquid Gravity. A great place to drown in booze and pussy, I'm telling you, it's awesome._

_**I'm sure. So I'm guessing you hooked up with someone? What was her name?**_

_Name? Uh..._

"Fine, forget about the name," Tseng uttered, pacing around the room, occasionally leaning against the back of Reno's chair with all the grace of an amateur dramatist pretending to be a private eye. Becoming a human lie detector, boring to the crux of the matter with pinpoint accuracy in mere seconds was easy. Padding out the core of information to complete the sphere however was not as simple, especially with someone as unpredictable as Reno. "Just move this stagnant story along, please."

"Well, I was willing to do anything to get my mind off her, and that means lowering my inhibitions even further. I was willing to follow a prostitute through the darkness of a known criminal's club, to snort a line of powder off a table without even knowing what it was, to get my dick sucked in front of twenty other people just to get her fucking face out of my head. I just... I couldn't stop thinking about her. It was eating me up inside almost to the brink of insanity.

"I went to sleep that night and I dreamed of her. Normally I just practically die for ten hours and resuscitate myself in the morning: a real dreamless slumber like I'm trapped in a sealed tomb of unconsciousness. But that night when I closed my eyes, I saw all these vibrant colours amalgamate and create this woman, this... this person, this _creature_.

"With snapshots left behind from my eyes, my mind had created this world, fuelled by every one of my senses, immersing me in warm air redolent of brackish seawater and her shallow breath. She was stark naked, her body plastered with tribal paints, sitting by a campfire trying to keep warm. And she was crying.

"I moved closer, she wept harder, and the colours over her body began to fade. The oranges melted into the fire, the blues and purples along the nocturnal horizon, the greens with the verdant slopes of the hilltops.

"When I was within touching distance, I noticed the red paint was not merely trickling over her body but was spewing from a bullet hole in her chest. I tried to help her, I really did, but I couldn't understand how. The more I pressed my hands against her icy chest to stop the bleeding, the bigger the wound became until my hands were completely submerged in her body, my fingers splaying through her ribs, experiencing the beating of her heart before it finally expired."

_Only when awake did I realise that all I had to do to keep her alive was move backwards. I just had to stay away from her. But I can selfishly confess that I did not want to leave her side. I've grown so accustomed to the sight of blood that it doesn't even matter anymore. It's as though being away from her is a fate worse than her death._

_**Well, the different levels of your mind are constantly trying to communicate with one another but don't know how. Only when we fall asleep can they properly communicate in a lingua franca of dreams. These dreams are merely translations, a manner for your subconscious mind, free from inhibition and logic, to express your thoughts from a different perspective.**_

_**Now, your dream is particularly striking and the message contained within is a bold as ink. You touched her heart before you killed her. Deep down inside, your subconscious is trying to tell you that she loves you, but her love for you is not enough to prevent you from killing her. The closer you get to her, the harder she weeps, the faster she dies. In other words, the longer you stay with her, the emotionally closer you will become. And, after all of this, when it is time to complete your mission, it will only get harder and harder; she will only feel more and more pain; you will only exact more and more blood. And finally, you prefer to stay by her side, watching as she dies instead of running back and letting her live. You wish to revel in what you think may be the last expression of love you'll ever fathom. Her body becomes devoid of colour, as will your attitude towards love; her body grows colder, as does your disposition towards your friends; her mortal body expires, as does your soul.**_

_**There are feelings for her buried within you somewhere and you are fighting them. You are willing to allow her to teach you about love, seeing her as a disposable entity, but you are frightened to let the love change you.**_

_**Why?**_

_**Why are you frightened?**_

"Holy shit... my head is pounding," Reno mumbled, rubbing his temples.

"I suppose that would be a side-effect of the Sodium Pentothal. I've never administered it with alcohol before and I wouldn't recommend doing it again. I've also never heard you talk so poetically about your dreams and inner feelings."

"And that'll be due to the Pentothal as well?"

"It'll wear off soon. So, you were saying," Tseng spoke, his attention recaptured by the softer side of his agent, macerated in whiskey, drugs and tough love.

"Well, I pretty much drank it off. Rude tried his hardest to cheer me up but I was in no mood. Later on we had a little argument over her. He was getting defensive over her and I didn't like it. I assumed his feelings for her were ossifying and that could only mean her feelings were doing the exact same thing. I mean, when it comes to Rude, he will only ever express his affection for someone he's sure will express it back. So, angrily, I poked the bear a little and it ended with him punching me square in the face.

"On my next date with Tifa, I couldn't help but feel so awkward, like we were magnets repelling one another. I didn't really put on the charm because I still wasn't ready to accept the true meaning of my dreams and was really put off by the memory of Rude's chivalrous knuckle-sandwich. I rushed through things and even started talking about AVALANCHE just to get the information out of her and get her out of my life for good. But she wasn't ready to talk. I knew she wasn't ready. And then I started to worry that I might have blown my cover. Luckily, she didn't pick up on anything.

"By the time I'd gotten home I was too itchy to sleep and too lethargic to remain active. I was becoming obsessed, I-I didn't know what else I could do. So I followed him again, well aware that the last time I did so only pushed me into a worse situation. But it didn't matter, I had to see what he was doing with her, I had to see what she found so intriguing about him. It didn't even matter if they were nothing more than friends. This new sensation of love or lust or whatever the hell you wanna call it was so wonderful and perplexing that I didn't want anything to jeopardise it.

"I started to go to extreme lengths, hacking into Shinra computers and tracing the GPS signal from Rude's cell phone to a popular cafe on the plate, a chic little place, really befitting his personality. I caught them just before they left in time to see her pale, limp limbs swaying with his footsteps as he carried her in his arms. The lifeless expression on her face, the pallor of her skin, the fragility of her shallow breaths... it all reminded me of my dream. It brought the images back with such vigour that I almost threw up right there on the street.

"I thought he had hurt her, squeezing the life out of her with his asphyxiating affection. In an instant I was overcome by the desire to pry her out of his arms, to throw him off the scent, to do anything humanly possible to make her invisible to him. And I knew there was only one person in the entire world he could ever love more than her..."

_**Jake...**_


	20. Holism

**20****  
**

**_Monday, October 25th, 8:35pm – Central Support Pillar_**

They scrambled through the iron playground together, their garments fluttering in numbing wind severely chilled by altitude and perpetual shade. The cold, reminiscent of the snow-clad mountain range of her hometown, never really bothered her before. But here, dodging electricity cables as thick as anacondas possessed by the merciless squalls rolling under the plate, she could think of nothing more, even when armed with the sight of _him_ perched over a metal ridge with an extended arm. Her shoulders had grown heavy and weary after the operose journey, protesting by trying to drag the rest of her body down under the guiding influence of gravity, but she found enough strength to leap up and grasp his arm without hesitation, seemingly unaware of the sheer drop beneath her feet.

Rude groaned as he pulled her over the ledge, nudging her towards the central pillar wall to ensure her safety. He allowed his torso to droop beside her, panting heavily as he did so, trying to explore her eyes under her frowsy fringe, aided in his pursuits only by the slanting shafts of pastel moonlight. She needn't worry about her telling eyes; he never would have guessed her perplexing thoughts for the man she thought she hated enough to refer to simply by pronouns in a vain attempt to expel his name from her mind, lest she blurt it out again during her next moment of intimacy, whenever that would be.

But wasn't this a moment of intimacy? She had been sharing his body heat for longer than should be deemed necessary and had just recently become a pendent, shivering block of dead weight, grazing low clouds as nothing more than five fingers of the enemy drew the line between life and death. As she had failed to notice until now, her body had scaled the graffiti plastered base of the central column––a cylindrical concrete canvas for recalcitrant youths to slander the government, curse and blaspheme with nothing more than a little spray paint––completely of its own volition, pulled up by an ethereal force, following him blindly up to the vertiginous summit. It was funny behaviour for a person of such strength in her situation.

"How you holding up?" he asked, taking greedy gulps of thin air.

"I've had better days," she confessed, peering down at the villages nestled within the tall, sere grass of autumn; a halcyon snapshot of the surroundings within which she wished to one day immerse herself. She could almost see the clichéd pies, cooled on window ledges by breezes carrying the scent of chlorophyll from afar as they playfully swept under delicate gossamer curtains; women conversing about the trivialities of life rather than those of impending death as they scooped buckets from nearby wells; men tilling fields with their hands and simple tools, respecting Mother Earth by maintaining the quality of her surface in exchange for survival rather than those ploughing to her very core with insentient machinery, extracting her soul for profit.

The inhabitants of these vastly proliferating hamlets kissed the atypically barren land that had become unattractive to small herbivores and so, even less attractive to the carnivorous beasts. Ignoring chocobo talon-prints, indicative of lush, rabbit-bitten pastures, they had opted to build their thatched-roof cottages over patches of arid soil, soon to be compacted under slate, stone and mythril. They had successfully developed at the apex of a dangerous triangle, avoiding the serpents of the marshland to the east and the winged ogres of the mines to the south.

The landscape offered a feast for her eyes, varying vastly in structure, material and the ability to nourish life-forms born without the innate propensity to kill for sport. The blood thirsty sharks lurked in the dark ocean, the venomous zoloms slithered through the quagmires, the wolves howled over the crumbling boulders and the vultures hid in the sun-bleached branches of dead trees. All feasted on flesh to survive. Although they did not seek pleasure at the sight or smell of blood; they merely used it as an indicator of sustenance. Eating, sleeping and mating occupied the minds, or brains for a better term, of all animals. They were not burdened by love or hate or the higher cortical functions that enabled them to derive satisfaction from any other activity in life.

How lucky they were.

"Are you sure the cops won't come looking up here?" Tifa asked, her gaze shifting directly below at the fusion of neon lights and police sirens.

Rude shook his head. "I doubt it. The most corruptible men in the organisation are the youngsters that want to skip the arduous process of working their way through the ranks, inevitably looking to hitch a free ride with the soon to be president. All of the new generation Shinra employees are _purebred_. Not one of them has ever stepped foot in the slums before. They won't know the city's secrets: they can't even get to Wall Market without an A to Z."

"Do you think they'll be able to find Monica?"

"No. I've got complete faith in Tseng. He'll find a way to get her safe."

"So where is she?"

"I don't know, and it's better that way. In the unlikely event of my capture, she'll be safer if I don't know anything."

She shivered at his disheartening tone, wondering why a hypothetical failure would only result in _his_ capture and not _theirs_.

Her thought was broken by the gentle vibrations seeping through her skin to the very core of her body. Very slowly, as though her frame amplified the vibrations, the sensation grew stronger, accompanied by a deep rumble like dampened thunder. The monolithic pillar and the concrete plate above resisted the temptation to tremble, silently mocking the loose metalwork and cables that began to oscillate and rattle. She waited patiently for a few more minutes, trying to comprehend the source of such commotion. The circumferential ledge they sat on soon succumbed to the force, giving them the impression of sitting atop an old washing machine on full power.

She shuffled closer towards him, silent with fear as the thunderous noise soon became deafening. The burning hooves of four apocalyptic horses were stamping against the air, the laughter of the horsemen blaring like a stentorian foghorn. She buried her face in Rude's shoulder, the sweat of her forehead mixing with that of his neck, only daring to unclamp her eyelids once to witness the Shinra No. 3 speeding along the winding tracks at eighty miles-per-hour. Next stop: Sector Eight.

Feeling undeniably foolish, she slowly loosened her neck and stared up into his eyes. Their faces were mere millimetres apart as they read one another's thoughts, or at least tried to. Resisting the urge to look away and the urge to lean forward with puckered lips; they simply remained glued in position.

"Do you still love her?" Tifa eventually whispered, unsure how the question could make this situation any less awkward.

His lips curled to form an answer, halted by a ringing cell phone. Gulping hard, he smiled and looked down at his pocket, fishing out the phone and ignoring her completely.

"Commander."

"_Rude, where are you_?"

"We scaled the central support pillar and are currently just beneath the upper plate."

"_We_?"

"I'll explain later. Just let me know you've found Jake."

"_We haven't got a location yet, but we know who did this. He's fine at the moment._"

"Oh, thank God." Looking up to the heavens, or in this case the underside of the upper plate, Rude let out a deep sigh of relief.

"_Heidegger is still in the slums looking for Monica. He knows nothing of Jake or yourself._"

"I don't understand. Who has him then?"

"_Probably just your run of the mill thug that wants to pay off his credit card debts with a little ransom money. I'll notify you as soon as we get a location. Until then you may be safer staying put. They've pulled waves of officers from the slums back to HQ but I'm guessing they're doing so to lull us into a false sense of security. _

_"I've given you an alibi: you're out of the city on a classified mission. If any one of them spots you, especially with Lockhart, they're bound to get suspicious. I mean, we have to give them _some_ credit."_

"When will it be safe to emerge?"

"_We can meet up tomorrow morning, preferably before ten, at Rolling Scones. I'm sure Heidegger will be bored of playing hide and seek by then. In the mean time, look after yourself, and try not to worry too much. We'll get Jake back safe and sound."_

"Thank you, sir," he replied, snapping his phone shut as he reverted to his original state and position, finding Tifa an arm's length away, hugging her knees and gazing out into the dusty plains with her back turned to him.

"So what's the good word?" she asked, her eyes never leaving the dry yellow land bathed in milky-blue light.

"They've nearly found Jake. They know who has him, just not where he is. He's safe."

"That's... that's great," she mumbled, still trapped in her distant state, trying not to let him see her shiver.

He floated closer towards her through the increasingly gelid air, leaning over to touch her shoulder before halting. "Are you OK?"

With upturned eyes she displayed a dramatically dolorous smile. "No, I'm not OK. I'm trapped under the plate, a thousand miles above normality in the freezing cold with... with _you_."

She turned to face him, expecting her final word to force him over the ledge as though she had thrown vitriol in his eyes. He, however, allowed the context of the word to bounce off his thick skin with all the strength of a seasoned author throwing his work into a crowd of ravenous critics. Staying calm, not taking her anger to heart: he thought it was the right thing to do. Unfortunately, he could not have been more wrong. In light of such awful events, she expected him to get a little upset. After all, she had not stopped internally crying over a little spilt milk. He, on the other hand, could have possibly lost his son forever, and all he needed was a simple phone call to instantaneously switch the notch from eleven to one. Above it all, he had the gall to sit there silently and make her feel like an overly emotional fool.

"What's the matter with you? Why aren't you angry? Why are you so incapable of rearranging that face of yours to express something other than utter boredom?"

"I... I'm sorry?"

"I'm angry and I'm confused and I want somebody to make sense of everything that's going on right now. I need to know you're absorbing all of these emotions instead of reflecting them back at me."

"Tifa, I don't understand," he whispered, wondering whether a deliberate look of grief would just frustrate her further.

She spread the warmth of her palm over her bare arm and returned to postcard picture of Kalm below her, slowly realising that he could deal with his problems his own way without having to alter his behaviour to make her feel better.

_Maybe I am just an overly emotional freak._

"I'm sorry, Rude. This isn't your fault. I just have no idea what I'm doing up here."

"You came because you wanted to help me."

"_Help_ you? How on earth could I possibly help you? If I'm doing anything, it's weighing you down with dead weight."

She recoiled from the sensation of his icy fingers over her shoulder and silently awaited a response.

Resting the back of his head against the central pillar, absorbing the gentle vibrations of vehicles and industry that dissipated in the mud below, he observed a solution and forcefully smiled as though it was written in the sky itself.

"Shinra––and by Shinra, I mean The Turks––know a lot about you, Barret Wallace and Samuel Biggs. The other two, Jessie-Something and 'Unknown Male', we know less about. What I'm trying to say is that it isn't really important for us to know who you are; it just helps us blend in with your crowd, should we ever feel the need to. We tend to avoid the intricate details of the components and have more of a holistic knowledge of how the machine, otherwise known as AVALANCHE, operates. We then exploit that knowledge for our own personal gain or, in most cases, protection."

She revolved her upper body as far as her spine allowed her and faced him with a look of intense incredulity: an image of pure wonder set upon her face, a beautiful canvas, against the defocused backdrop of sleeping wildlife. She need not speak. He was merely trying to spark her curiosity and required nothing more than the glimmer in her eyes to continue.

"Should we see you as an immediate threat," he continued, "we'd eliminate you."

"You're telling me you don't see explosives in reactor cores as an immediate threat?" she asked, dragged to face him by the fishing hook, ignorant of his verbal ability to reel her in.

"Like I said, we ignore the components and concentrate on the machine as a whole. The Shinra know who they are: the conglomerate that built this eccentric plate of luxury at the expense of the slum dwellers basic human rights. And they know who you are: a bunch of bohemian eco-terrorists that wish to prolong the life of the planet. I mean, can you honestly tell me you'd be willing to kill one person to save another?"

"You see this is where your holistic view of our _machine_ fails. Not all of the components behave the same way. And if one of those insignificant components fails, it could stop the machine altogether."

"Exactly." He tried to repress the smile of a victorious argument. "_You_ are that malfunctioning component."

"Alright, can we stop talking in metaphors please?"

"Fine. But think about it. If AVALANCHE wanted to destroy the reactors, don't you think they would have done it by now? Every anti-Shinra organisation is built on a foundation of trust and teamwork. They are bound by laws of holism. I assure you that no matter how far your group will go to destroy Shinra, they will never make the first move until _you_ get on their side"

The thought festered in her mind, becoming continually more dark and disturbing. In essence, the lives of so many innocent people lay in her hands. A sudden change in disposition would be enough to clamp her fingers together in bitter rage and destroy every last one of them. Already in such a fragile state, she could only wonder if revenge against the enemy would eventually overpower her maternal instincts. She could only be deemed the mother without a child for so long before the demoralising subtext of the title would drive her to the fiery bowels of a mako reactor––explosive in hand and a screed regarding the injustice of her life that she would now distribute from the core of a mushroom cloud passing her lips.

She was different. She did not conform to the laws of holism like the others. She could not take her eyes off the individual end of human life that would inevitably save humanity as a whole no matter how hard she tried.

"We study your kind so closely that your actions become points on a chart we have already empirically plotted. People like you, however, throw the normal course of events off on a tangent or into a never ending loop hole. Still, we make the best of the information we have." He stopped at the sound of her chattering teeth and removed his jacket, complying with the orders of his somewhat passé sense of chivalry. After draping it over her bare shoulders he continued. "Right now we are waiting; waiting under the orders of a mad man that believes a little bad press will solve all of his problems. But I suppose people aren't gullible enough to believe _everything_ they see or hear in the news. It's always nice to put a face, or faces, on the problem. If the masses have someone to blame, they will unite together in hatred and forget why they were mad in the first place. The Shinra will order one of us to commit a heinous crime and slap your name on it in the hope that AVALANCHE will become the Emanuel Goldstein to their Big Brother."

"What heinous crime are you talking about?"

"I'm not sure, but I can tell you it always boils down to mass murder."

"Doesn't it always?" she mumbled, her sarcasm lost in monotony.

"Something big is going to happen; I've heard a lot of rumours through the grapevine."

"Like what?" she asked; the intrigue drawing her closer to him as she wrapped his jacket closer over her skin, inhaling the comforting fragrance within.

"Truly awful things. Acid stored under the plate that will rain down upon the slums like a plague, monsters released into hospitals and schools to feed on the weak and vulnerable, toxic waste from mako reactors poured over food supplies, bombs built into portions of the plate that will fall and crush entire slum sectors. If any of these stories are real, they'll occur without a moment's hesitation, and you will get all of the credit."

"They can't really do that can they?"

"Why not? Your friends are willing to do something equally as deplorable."

"But the intentions of my friends are pure."

"No intention is pure. You may think you are fighting for the planet or for justice, but really you are all simply fighting for vengeance. Each and every one of you thinks that you've been shortchanged by Shinra. You've either lost love ones or love itself, and you're looking for someone to blame just like the citizens that grimace as they watch the news rather than shut it off."

Her eyes bounced within their sockets in search of justification, halted by realisation.

Checkmate.

"Why... why are you telling me all of this?"

"You asked me how you could help me, and I'm responding by telling you the inner secrets of the organisation. I'm telling you this because I trust you. And you've bestowed this sense of trust within me, risking life and limb by scaling this perilous climb to the plate."

Shrinking back––her head now on the steel ledge, her torso tightly bound in his jacket––she silently implored him not to trust her. The only action she could continue now was the observation of her condensing breath before she closed her eyes.

"So we're stuck up here for tonight?" she asked; her eyes still clamped shut.

"It appears so. We'll climb the final section of the pillar tomorrow and meet with Tseng. For now we'll have to try our hardest to grab a few of hours of sleep."

"It shouldn't be too hard. My body is completely drained. The cold won't take my rest away from me, believe me, I've slept through worse back home in Nibelheim. Me and my friends used to go camping in the mountains in the middle of winter."

"Good. You need your rest."

"How are you going to sleep?" she asked; her eyes opening, trained upon him, as she did so.

"I'll manage," he replied, taking her old spot to overlook the crumbling no-man's-land beyond him, his back turned to her, blocking the numbing wind. "And no... I don't love her anymore."

She supported her head with her arms and began the slow journey on the road to unconsciousness, fringed with thoughts of right and wrong, dishonesty and trust, evil and good. These values could not be graded as she had once thought and were absolute, the difference between them created by perspective alone. Who was to say she was fighting for the right cause? Who was to say she was not wrong, dishonest or evil? After all, had she really followed Rude up here to help save his son, or had she done so to exact revenge for his unintentional interference in her relationship and to destroy a tiny piece of the organisation that had ripped her father out of her life and wiped her entire hometown off the map?

Even with such maddening thoughts flowing through her mind, she managed, with the advantage of a lost circadian rhythm, to drift to sleep.

Rude turned and brushed the strands of hair from her face, watching her sleep, happy to do so for infinity if he had to. Or at least until one of the trains arrived, which, thankfully, were never punctual.

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 8:48am – Midgarian Outskirts_**

The vultures had inexorably followed him over the course of his trek, waiting patiently for him to succumb to the mighty sun that would inevitably wring the last droplets of water from his system. He had been crawling on bruised knees for days, surviving only on the moisture trapped in vegetation; the inchoate picture of a thriving city pushing him harder, fuelling his desire to survive. Although distorted, the image of the upper plate impinged on his retinae; the first neural sensation of life beyond the dirt and the squawking scavengers, releasing him from the cruel world of mirages. With every passing hour the image grew larger, bolder and sharper until he possessed the acuity to resolve buildings from skyscrapers to individual homes.

He was so close. He could almost smell the diesel in the air fusing with the steam of hectic sushi huts. He could almost hear the grinding machinery of workshops and the crackling of flames leaping out of garbage cans, warming the fingers of passersby as they caught sight of their neighbours and stopped to chat. He could almost hear her voice, her soft, mellisonant voice, enveloping the sounds of the city. It was but a mere whisper of a promise made and forgotten, the words she used so familiar yet so unfathomable.

He dropped to his back, his skull crashing against the ground, as the jagged edge of a rock punctured the skin of his knee, releasing an angel's share of blood into the atmosphere. The vultures approached him readily, waddling back and forth, frightened by his groans of protest. He just had to lift up his arms and drag his limb body to the electric fencing buzzing ahead of him, but no matter how many signals his brain relayed to his biceps, they simply did not respond, sapped of all energy.

Devoid of any nourishment, his body had begun to wear down his own heart as a source of protein, dampening the terrifying thuds to barely audible murmurs. Allowing his head to roll to the side, he stared at the largest vulture, displaying its impressive wingspan as it inched closer and examined his face. He would scream no more. He was ready for them to peck away his flesh and for the valkyries to deliver him to the glimmering gates of Valhalla.

There was nothing left to fight for.

The invisible force of surrender wiped its palm over his eyelids and gently pressed them to a close. The afterimage of the upper plate took its time to dissolve, followed by the smells and sounds of the city. He tried to return to a state of sensory deprivation, fighting against the residual sound of her promise echoing through his skull. In such clarity the words became more familiar, dragging memories from his mind along with them.

The cold shade of blue brushed hastily across the sky, dappled in twinkling lights. The shooting stars zipping through space and time. The dark clouds blotting the aerial colours. The stone gargoyles keeping their careful gaze over him.

Her voice.

What was her name?

There was enough strength left in him to pry his lids open, allowing shafts of dazzling light to pour through his eyes.

Yes, there was definitely something worth fighting for residing in the city or slums of Midgar. Her voice had been present in his mind as he had shuffled along miles behind, as he had watched the scarlet rain fall from the sky, as he had dodged hundreds of bullets without moving a muscle. It had been a beacon, growing in intensity with every footstep, leading him to the city to find salvation and add meaning to his trivial life.

Imperceptible claws pierced his lungs and dragged themselves downwards as he took in a deep gulp of air, ready to scream for aid. The sound scratched his throat as it escaped his lips, travelling with dust and dry leaves with the wind.

As though the valkyries feared that his time was no longer now, they pushed the sound further, squeezing it through the pores of the electric fence and into the ear canals of a border guard.

"Hey, did you hear that?"

The other guard, emerging rifle and all from his kiosk, shrugged and shook his head. "Hear what?"

"It sounded like someone screaming."

"Yup. This job'll do that to ya."

"I'm not kidding," he replied, a genuine look of worry infecting his face. "I'm gonna go check it out. Watch my post."

He strapped his gun to his shoulder as he unlocked his gate and followed the trampled dirt to the open plains, shading his eyes from the low sun with his palm as he called out into nothingness. His solitary voice echoed off rocks, hoping to catch the ear of the injured party and cajole a response.

Hearing nothing, he resisted the urge to turn back and continued towards the sound of quarrelling vultures. His pace evolved from a jog to a sprint as the glimmer of a sword and bright yellow spikes of hair caught his eye. Falling to his knees beside the casualty, raising the dust around him, he gently shook the dying man, continually talking aloud to infuse a little hope into him.

"Hello! Can you hear me! Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

With no energy left in his fingers he could only resort to internal screaming.

_I can hear you! I can hear you!_

"I don't want you to choke on your tongue, buddy," the man shouted, gently rolling the victim's body into the recovery position, tilting his head back so he could intake a fair share of hot air.

After rifling through his pockets for identification, he found a soiled ID card; the name barely legible under dry blood; the image completely obscured.

He took to his feet in shock and fumbled with his radio.

"Alpha, Seven, Seven, Nine! We have a SOLDIER down! First Class: Zack Fair. I repeat, First Class: Zack Fair. Send an ambulance to the southern gate now! Over."

He felt the sweet breeze under the vultures' wings as they took to the air and forced one last look at the reflection in his sword, soon allowing unconsciousness to wash over.

_First Class._

_Zack Fair._


	21. Tongue

**21**

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 9:46am – Dr. Kauffman's Office, Psychiatric Clinic, TURK HQ, Shinra Building_**

Colour was such a welcome change. It did enough to subconsciously occupy Reno's brain, swarming into his skull through the corners of his eyes whilst remaining unobtrusive enough to prevent him from realising that it was only there to distract him from psychosis. And, as though it had pilfered elements from the majority of the spectrum, it radiated warmth and energy––borne of crushed berries, ground nuts or dried leaves––to efficiently create an environment of synthetic nature.

The carpeting, green and lush, stretched underfoot over to the end of the room flanked by empty wooden coat racks and an endearing grandfather clock. All in all, he was immersed in a microcosm separated from the real word with partitions of confidentiality and understanding. Only within these four walls could he ever flee from prejudice, rendering the veils of arrogance and fatuity obsolete, unravelling them alongside the truth that would only fortify the walls and protect him further.

Now that the veils had gone, however, he could not help but feel exposed and undeniably foolish. He shrank in his seat and wrapped his arms around his chest under the scrutinising gaze of a security camera. He had been constantly reassured that the camera did not record sound and was only installed as a measure to protect the doctor from his somewhat deadly patients, but Reno had always known how to differentiate deception and white lies.

Dr. Kauffman stroked the emergent patch of white hair under his chin, lost in a state of pondering as though trying to decipher an ancient, arcane language. The name of the stolen child had become verboten, dragging every other word along with it as it seeped out of the room, removing the medium that had once given Reno comfort in spite of vulnerability.

The doctor's foot tapped against the floor as his eyes met the ornate hands of the grandfather clock. He did not wish to be disturbed as he mentally placed all the jigsaw pieces together, completely ignoring the primary aspect of his job. Of course, he had developed a fondness for conversing with the fellow members of his species, all so unique despite their blatant similarities, and could only dismiss such an action if a piece of the puzzle was missing.

In this case, the missing piece was Tifa Lockhart.

As a single puzzle piece, Rude was an incredibly complex man. But, upon slotting his piece with all the others, partially completing the picture, his character had become as lucid as he had always professed. His attitude towards life, love and work were all direct, albeit a little naive, following the rigidly straight path of logic. The only kink in this apparently straight path presented itself with a fear of allowing complex emotions connected to thoughts of the aforementioned aspects to cloud his judgement when, in actual fact, his simplistic lack of emotions became the real problematic issue. Funnily enough, the converse statement would hold completely true for Reno; a man once seen as incredibly simple, thriving off cheap thrills, now becoming confusingly complex.

But Tifa. Who was she? Where did she stand? What did she feel? Who did she pledge her allegiance to, if at all?

"Look, Doc," Reno uttered, stealing Kauffman from his reverie, "this company doesn't pay you to just sit there and feel your ass grow."

Embarrassed as though caught in some lewd act, the doctor exposed a few pearly whites and pushed his bifocals further atop the bridge of his nose.

"Forgive me for being so rude. I was lost in my own thoughts."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Isn't it my job to ask the questions?" he chuckled; his east-continental accent emerging unrestrained.

"No, it's your job to develop a rapport between yourself and your patient. You aren't merely interrogating me, you're excavating the secrets within my soul that even I am unaware of."

"But of course. Again, forgive me," he responded with a gracious look of vitreous transparency, eliciting an even stronger response from his patient.

"You seem to have forgotten that I'm in a very fragile state at the moment. I gotta tell you, your period of silent meditation isn't really helping my paranoia."

"You believe I am thinking about _you_?" he objected; his bony fingers waving defensively in the air. "I will always verbalise my thoughts regarding you when in your presence."

"Oh, well that's much better. You tell me how it is to my face, but then you'll go straight back to silently judging me as soon as my back is turned. What kind of fucking shrink are you!?"

"Now hold on. I'm not judging––"

"As far as I can tell, you're sat there, avoiding eye contact with the biggest prick on the planet. C'mon, be honest with me. You must think I'm the lowest of the low right now."

"Of course I don't, Reno. It's only human nature to look out for one's own interests. People can do truly evil things, but that does not mean they do not deserve a second chance."

"Come again?"

"Let me put it to you this way. You can remove a knife from a crime scene and see it as nothing more than an implement of murder. But don't forget that the same knife can also be used to cut bread to share amongst the hungry. Your life is a lot like that knife; it is able to impact the world positively or negatively depending on whose hands it is in. Obviously this is just an analogy: your life is far more complex than a simple inanimate object, but the same principles apply, and you can only move forward to do better things if you let go of your past. You can't be afraid of the judgement of others. People forgive and forget. It's one of our finest qualities."

Reno took his time to digest the comments, rocking gently on his seat as he nodded. "Do you really expect me to fall for that bullshit?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Let _me_ put it to _you_ this way. If I presented a toilet to you and told you I had managed to clean it so vigorously that I had actually eradicated every last bacterium from it, would you still drink out of it?"

Puzzled, Kauffman shrugged his shoulders, already preparing to admit defeat. "I... I... well..."

"It's a simple yes or no answer, Doc."

"I would have to say no then."

"What if I presented you with a toilet that was brand new? Would you drink from that?"

"Well, of course not."

"So you're saying that you can't ignore the stigma of drinking water from such a container just because you associate it with human waste? How about if we return to your knife? What if it was used to slit your child's throat? Would _you_ still use it to cut your bread the next day? Or what if you met the owner of the knife? Would you offer him a glass of wine and a seat by the fireplace of your home just to prove how resilient the human mind is with its ability to _forgive_ and _forget_?"

The doctor's wizened skin flushed in an instant, adding the forbidden missing colour into their private microcosm; a red of passion and aggression like lurid flames engulfing the wooden ornaments. He clenched his fists tightly enough to squeeze the blood from his fingers as they trembled, transforming them from hot red to ghostly white. The ground stole his attention as he tried in vain not to glance at the framed picture nestled between neat stacks of paper on his desk.

"What do you know?" he whispered through clenched teeth, failing to maintain his composure.

"I do my homework, too, Doc," he responded, as his arms slowly unclamped from his chest, tingling with a sense of overpowering authority. "But I don't need case histories or creative writing essays to do so. I can see what's underneath your skin. I can smell it. I can taste it in the air as it radiates off your tongue." With an ingloriously wicked smile, he nodded at the picture by the desk. "You're what? Seventy-something? And that's a sepia photograph of a school kid in a photo frame? I'm assuming this child will remain forever young, rendered immortal by the hands of some wretch like me."

"How did you know?" he managed to ask above his trembling.

"You don't have a wedding ring, so you're not married, at least not any more. I doubt you have any other family either, judging by all the hours you spend here. Y'know, I don't think I've ever seen you leave the building once. In fact, I've checked the log books over at the dorm cells and found you've been living there for the past four years now. I thought it was just a peculiarity at first, but now I see the real reason behind it. You've got nothing else to go back to. You prefer to stay cooped up in this room, talking to a bunch of psychos so you can reassure yourself that there are some people worse off than you."

Reno, feeling the onset of guilt festering within his stomach, took a cigarette from his pocket and sank back into his seat as he sucked on it.

"So," he spoke, his words muffled by the now lit cigarette, "what was his name?"

"Ruben. His name was Ruben. He was my shining star, extinguished by the cruel hands of fate, shot in the neck as he walked home from school with his friends: a case of mistaken identity between the teenage gangs of the slums. It happened over forty years ago now. He should have turned fifty-one three months ago. God, has it really been that long?"

"I'm sorry. Really."

Kauffman carefully lifted the picture, grazing the tip of his finger over the cold glass, a proud smile developing across his lips.

"He is the only inspiration I have left. The only reason I ever get up in the morning. I know there are people out there who must endure similar tragedies, and, as though his seraphic smile is pushing me into this room, I know I must offer them the help and counselling I was never fortunate enough to receive. Whatever I do, it's because of him. It's _for_ him. So don't you dare assume I am as selfish as you! I do not do this job merely for my own personal gain."

"Fair enough," he conceded tactfully. "Well, now that that's out in the open, why don't we regenerate our dynamic by starting afresh?"

"And how exactly do you propose to do that?" he responded bitterly, his eyes still locked onto his son's as he placed the frame back on the table.

"By reminding you that this element of honesty is a two-way street and asking you, now that you no longer see me as a client, but rather as a jackass, what you are thinking about."

The doctor exhaled like a slowly deflating beach ball before letting out a low chuckle. "You know, the magnitude of your paranoia barely scrapes that of your guile."

"So I've been told."

Kauffman took to his feet and shuffled over to the window, his frail body becoming a silhouette against the dazzling morning light.

"Alright, I'll be frank with you. I think you are a truly self-absorbed little man that would sell the soul of his own mother before admitting defeat. You've been gifted with a vastly superior intellect, but this seems to be a blessing in disguise, enabling you to get everything you've ever wanted without even aiming. Because of this, you've never lost control of any situation, which inevitably leaves you inexperienced at dealing with such problems when they finally occur. I mean, I look at you now, and all I see is a headless chicken scurrying about with no clue of what to do next."

"Yup," Reno agreed, nodding along, "that sounds about right."

"I'll confess; I'm only helping you so that you in turn may help Rude. I've been offering solutions to reunite him with his son for what feels like a lifetime now, but they all seem to have failed. He shouldn't miss the best of years of Jake's life and Jake should not have to go without a father."

"I agree. So what do we do?"

The doctor's aging eyes traced the contours of the plate, soon abandoning it for the horizon marred by jagged mountain tops and the very faint glimmer of the Gold Saucer.

The only answer he could formulate was preceded by a sigh.

"This could be difficult. Before we can untangle your attitude towards Rude we must first dig to the core of this problem, and, unfortunately for you, the core of this problem lies within Tifa Lockhart. We know how she feels about you, but your feelings towards her are still a mystery."

Reno winced, sucking the air through his teeth as he did so. "I hate to break it to you, Doc, but her feelings towards me are equally murky. You see, there's a little snippet of my story that I haven't told you yet."

"I'm listening."

"Well, to cut a long story short, she and I were out jogging yesterday morning down Corporation Park. One thing led to another and––" he paused and rolled his eyes about their axes, searching for a visible explanation. "Well, actually, one thing didn't lead to another. She just sorta pounced on me with no explanation like a horny little minx. It was so spontaneous and exciting, like... like her character developed a completely new dimension and took the legs right under me. I mean, for the past month, the one thing I've always hated about her is her predictability. Then she goes and does a thing like this, and all of a sudden I feel the overwhelming urge to get over my fear of commitment lest I never find such a woman again.

"So, we stumbled into the woodland and ripped off our clothes, engaging in a tumultuous embrace, lost in a sea of chemicals stimulating pleasure receptors in my brain and dick that commandeered my tongue and forced it to tell her I was falling in love with her."

"That's a nice way of putting it," Kauffman interjected, wiping his spectacles with his chequered tie as he returned to his seat. "The pleasure receptors commandeered your tongue? It seems the honesty on this two-way street is only flowing in one direction again."

"You're a shrink, OK? You should be able to comprehend the subtext of my speech without me having to spell it out for you."

"I'm afraid that's no longer good enough. You're not my client anymore, Reno. You're just some jackass. Remember?"

"Fine! I felt like telling her I loved her, so I told her. Are you happy now, old man?"

Kauffman smiled arrogantly, giving Reno a taste of his own medicine. "Very. Please, continue."

"So," he continued, lowering his head as though dragged by the embarrassment, "there we were, lying naked in mud and stone-cold grass when I let my... _love_ for her slip off my tongue. And you wanna know what her response was?"

"I can't wait," he replied sarcastically.

"_I think I'm falling in love with you, too_––Rude."

The doctor frowned upon hearing the buzzword employed by the entire emotionally-drained community, fearing the core of the problem may actually reside within Rude as a direct result of his constant interference. He had imposed the natural propensity to exist with another soul upon him, trying desperately hard to define that soul as Jake. But the nebulous terminology he used could have easily coerced him into a string of dead-end relationships, forgetting how the human mind will always opt for the simplest approach. As far as Rude was concerned, he still had a glimmer of hope regarding his relationship with his son, and maybe that was all he needed to survive. To know he could ultimately destroy such a dream would obviously force him away, searching for affection elsewhere.

Feeling somewhat responsible for all this, Kauffman removed a pen from his pocket and began jotting down a few notes, hoping the action would seem constructive enough to mitigate Reno's anxiety.

"I put my balls on the line for the first time in my entire life and the bitch shot me down."

"Maybe it was just a slip of the tongue," Kauffman added, chewing on the tip of his pen. "You found her unconscious in his arms. Whatever happened between the two of them must have been pretty significant. Her mind could have just wandered at the wrong time."

"Even so, it just means her mind was wandering when I was finally pouring my heart out. That speaks volumes about how she feels about me, doesn't it?"

"I suppose. So how did you deal with the situation?" the doctor asked, immediately returning to his original state of professionalism.

"I dealt with the situation like a headless fucking chicken, ditching her there in confused mess. I locked myself in my reserved cell back here in HQ and raided my liquor cabinet, hoping to fight the fire in my stomach with more fire, ready to drink myself into a coma. And the funny thing about it was I didn't even know why. Why did I care so much about her? Why did I care if she liked me or not? Why was I so angry at Rude for betraying me when I know I would have done the exact same thing in his position?"

"At least your anger was confined in a locked cell. I mean, a drunk, distraught hit-man is pretty much like a raging bull in china––"

"They called up and asked for their money," Reno interjected, planting his face firmly within his palms to save himself from any prolonged agony. "I had to enlist the help of one of Don Corneo's underlings, asking him to keep the kid in a secure location and expect payment within a day or two. I can only guess the Don wasn't too happy about the arrangement, because within six hours my cell phone was already ringing. They demanded payment, said they didn't care who I was, and that they would kill Jake if they didn't feel the bulge in their wallets within the next twenty-four hours." Reno's eyes sunk lower to the floor of their orbits, wishing to see nothing more than the fake grass under his feet. "Returning home after the humiliating climax of my jog, in a furious, inebriated state, I told them I didn't give a damn about the kid anymore and hung up, ready to pass out in a pool of my own vomit."

Kauffman remained calm, placing his pen on the table before leaning forward on his seat to regain Reno's full attention. Avoiding anger, he adopted a soft tone, speaking to his client as though he was his own grandson.

"As I continue to tell you, your inexperience in the face of failure and rejection led you to this position." Leaning further still, he bored to the crux of the matter, touching Reno's arm gently. "How much time do we have left?"

"Just over four hours."

"Does Commander Tseng know about this?"

He shook his head. "The only information he has is a name. He hasn't connected the crime to Corneo's mafia and doesn't know about the deadline."

Kauffman took to his feet once more and opened the door, gesturing for Reno to stand with him. "The only reason you have come here is because you want an answer to your predicament: do you value your friendship with Rude over your relationship with Tifa? Or is it the other way around? You're also looking for someone to tell you you're not a monster, but I can't offer you any real absolution with words or pills. You have to follow your heart. However you choose to deal with this situation, whatever you feel inside, will lead you to your answer, which, it saddens me to say, lies in the life or death of Jake Gauthier."

"If that is so," Reno responded, rising from his seat slowly like a cobra from a charmer's basket, "then the answer simply resides within my conscience. And I know I wouldn't let a child die just to prove a point."

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" he replied, holding his hand aloft for a gentlemanly shake. "I think we've gotten everything we can out of this session. It was a pleasure meeting you, Reno. I bid you adieu."

Ignoring the doctor's hand, the Turk stood by the doorway, his gaze menacingly cold.

"I think you mean _au revoir_. The word _adieu_ means 'to God'. It's only used when you are sure you will never see someone again."

"I know. It's just that I am aware of how Heidegger punishes treachery, and, based on what I've seen today, I can only assume you'll make the wrong decision."

He took a final drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out under his shoes on the lush carpeting, waiting for his mind to produce a clever response.

"Fuck you," he finally hissed. It was the best he could manage under such stress, dampening the shame by shoulder barging Kauffman and slamming the door behind him, blind to blatant use of reverse psychology, one of the oldest tricks in the book.

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 9:49am – Shinra Airspace_**

Tifa lost herself in silence, only interrupted by the drone of rotor blades and the distorted commands erupting from the helicopter radio. She had opted to leave the headset microphone untouched, fearing helmet hair and the prospect of talking to the suits besides her. Sandwiched between stoicism and distrust, both abiding by strict rules of postural etiquette, she fixed her gaze to her lap, ignoring the wonderful views beyond the immobile features of their profile faces.

She had awoken earlier this morning to a refulgent sunrise in its earliest phase, the light barely reaching the littoral sands in the far distance, in a state of monumental bliss. Trapped in the transition from sleep to wake when her dreams had yet to be disengaged from her life, she smiled at the earth, watching from above with all the pride and hope of a mother. It reminded her of the phrase she had abhorred for so long: the mother without a child. But up here, enjoying the majesty of God's creation, observing the beauty of the world they way He did, she knew her affection would transcend to a larger scale. She knew she was in the right, fighting for the better cause in her own way. After all, a mother cannot kill one child to save another. No, she would protect the planet, becoming the mother it needed, without resorting to terrorism.

And then, as though crashing into frozen water, the smell of his familiar cologne violently roused her from her reverie. She had turned to see a warm smile, an obvious attempt to demonstrate his ability to take her criticism with a pinch of salt, and a granola bar. She rejected his offering of breakfast, complaining of a stomach that was still fast asleep, and the two immediately began the ascent to the plate, ignoring the triviality of complaining about the difficulties of resting the previous night, reaching the parking lot of the Shinra building by nine-thirty.

She couldn't have imagined anything more awkward than her first meeting with Tseng, somewhat intimidated by his eloquence and his domineering aura. He had chosen to ignore her, as she had likewise, both seated besides one another, avoiding eye contact like opposing generals coerced into signing a peace treaty. She could only imagine him using his scarlet tilaka, his _third eye_, to monitor her as he spoke quietly to Rude, mentioning the all too familiar name of Don Corneo.

She, like plenty of women in the slums, had had many a run in with Corneo and his foul men, leaving her unable to stray too far from Wall Market, avoiding the goons that indefatigably continued to harass her, persuading her to join the innumerable scores of women working to satisfy the carnal desires of the Don with brutal force. Trained in a variety of martial arts, she did not fear any of them, but they often lurked around in packs of fifteen or twenty; a number far too large for one person to tackle.

She was almost glad that Corneo was responsible for Jake's kidnap: now she had two reasons to kick his butt.

Remaining abstemious, she ate a light breakfast of fruit slices before being carted away to a clandestine airstrip, loaded onto a helicopter piloted by an anonymous aviator. Tseng had entered first and she had followed second, prompted by Rude to enter before him in another unnecessary display of chivalry, leaving her in the middle of the two of them for the rest of the journey.

She found the courage to glance to the left at the pale cheeks, half obscured by his achromatic mane, of Rude's superior, catching sight of a very subtle smile. He had faced her only once before boarding the helicopter in their only moment of dialogue, dizzying her with his contrasting use of a soft, almost saccharine tone with terse sentences, wasting as little time with her as possible. He told her they were mere temporary allies, that this did not change a thing between Shinra and AVALANCHE, and that he was only allowing her to tag along because her skills as a martial artist could prove beneficial. She had accepted the agreement with nothing more than a nod, unable to produce a verbal response before he turned his back on her and walked away.

Turning to the right, she could afford a longer glance, mistaking the cause of the butterflies in her gut for fear. But upon recognising that similar smile from this morning, the smile of friendship and camaraderie, she realised the butterflies had emerged from cocoons of a developing trust. She still felt safe in his presence. Still inclining towards happiness. But did trust for the enemy not warrant a need for fear?

She winced as the helicopter submerged quickly below plate level, the number of butterflies multiplying exponentially, grasping the seat as she allowed the darkness to envelop her. She had always encouraged her friends and family to overcome their fears. Now, unable to turn back, it was her time to practise what she preached, for Jake's sake, and even more so for her own.

* * *

**A/N**

If you've made it this far, I applaud you. These past four chapters have been pretty heavy, I know. But, in RPG terms, we're approaching the final dungeon! The next chapter may or may not be the last, but either way, we're nearlly at the end! Hopefully!

Until then.

aardy.


	22. Faith

**22**

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 10:09am – University of Midgar Medical Centre, Upper Plate_**

_What do you mean you don't know who he is?_

The verbal sounds etched through the monotony of the electrocardiogram, assuring him there was something more interesting than his heartbeat waiting on the other side of this comatose world. Of course, as soon as he had become aware of it, he found it comparable to the melody of a harp, luring him away from the luxury of morphine into reality. Soon enough, however, the rhythm of his very existence began to irritate him. In the isolation of his own head, he was free from the everlasting desire to escape, left with nothing more than the nightmares of his ordeal.

The beady eyes, magnified under rimless spectacles, pierced through the glass and the emerald coloured liquid; the eyes of his tormentor and guardian that offered sustenance with morsels of bread and doled out torture with phials of noxious chemicals. He thought they would remain in the bowels of hell after he escaped, witnessing the bolts securing the doors at the bottom of the spiralling staircase as he drifted out of the abyss. But, alas, the very same piercing eyes had latched to the coattails of his subconscious, eternalised in his memory.

_I'm saying this man is not Zack Fair. He looks a little similar, but we assessed the dental records, fingerprints, iris and retinal scans: none of them match those in the database. When I rifled through the records, I discovered Fair's been MIA for the past five years, presumed dead. _

Trapped in his own sedated body, he could do nothing more than stare at the ghastly images projected onto the interior surface of his eyelids. He could see the emaciated body of his captor, hunching with arms linked behind his back as he perambulated the laboratory and thought to himself. The greatest storytellers in existence did not own one-tenth of the imagination required to cook up the painful, humiliating tests the wicked man would put him through. Although his captor did not seek pleasure in his pain, only in discovering the symptoms exhibited with exposure to the trial poisons and panaceas he concocted. He would peer above his half-moon lenses as he stabbed the cold meat of his victim with needles of all sizes; his features twitching neither towards a smile nor to a frown as the squeals of agony exploded forth. If it was possible, the idea of such indifference was more evil than that of a lunatic, cackling wickedly like a Klansman by a burning cross.

_So what are you saying? We should just kick him out? He's got severe mako poisoning; he won't last another day unless he receives haemodialysis right away._

The captor's indifference was never absolute. Now and then he would not resist the upturning of his lips as he ordered another understudy to dispose of his victim's soiled undergarments and clean up the residual mess. He looked down to the pathetic test subject as he quivered on the floor, unable to stand on the depleted muscles of his legs, gawking at him as though he were some exhibit in a freak show, shaking his head in disgust at the live cadaver. Becoming tired of this life-size marionette, favouring the strength and the rebelliousness of the _other_ subject, he taunted him, persuading him to just give up and die.

_This wing is dedicated to treating SOLDIERS––our national heroes––in the luxury they deserve. For all we know, this John Doe could be nothing more than some filthy vagrant looking for a warm bed, wasting valuable resources that were created for the people that deserve it. _

If not only to fulfil the lost promise, he would claw his way back from the brink of death just to prove the professor wrong. He had paid his dues; his punishment was over. Now was the time for retribution, to fear nothing but fear itself with a disposition as cold as the blade by his bedside, for that was the only way to survive in this mad world. To avoid predation, he would have to become one of _them_. A predator.

_We can't ignore our Hippocratic oaths and pick and choose our patients!_

Fringes of light erupted forth as the darkness collapsed in on itself, replaced by green spikes pacing across a monitor. He blinked rapidly to clear the picture, rolling his eyes to better explore his new environment, stopping by two white blurs.

_I can't? Watch me._

One blur drifted towards him, enabling him to focus upon the lab coat and a hypodermic needle, pinning him down to the nightmares from which he had tried to evade. Old hands sprouted from white sleeves, wrinkled yet still dextrous as they pulled on the lever, sucking air into the syringe, ready for insertion into tender flesh. The fingers approached nearer, ready to grab him by the throat, dragging him from the womb of safety, returning him to the sepulchre under the Shinra Mansion where the doctor's beady-eyed accomplice awaited him.

Feeling a cold surge of energy rush through him, expressed by the electrocardiographic beeps that sped and transformed into an intense hum, he pushed the doctor back with all his might, ripping cables and suction pads off his skin as the old man slid across the room in agony. He collected his bloodstained clothes and his Buster Sword, reclaiming his identity as the alpha male, the warrior of the highest rank, the First Class SOLDIER.

He brandished the large blade by the other's throat, thereby removing the only obstacle from the threshold to freedom, sprinting away barefoot as the doctor dropped to his knees and curled into a ball. The marble tiles sapped the warmth from his feet as he ran, emitting a dull pitter-pattering that echoed through the hallway. He tried not to cringe as he shouldered the reception entrance's heavy double doors before he disappeared into the sea of pedestrians outside, laughing at the scythe of his soul's bounty hunter, finding his reason to exist.

Now all he needed was a reason to _live_.

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 10:12am – Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

He nudged the limp body over the steps with a kick, watching it roll lifelessly down with a smirk. Of course, he was not one to enjoy murder for the sake of murder. But when it came to this infestation of serial rapists, he would gladly play the exterminator. And it was about time, too, for nobody else in this godforsaken city had the guts to bring them to justice, forcing him to bypass bail money and pocketed politicians with nothing more than a few bullets and a battery-powered nightstick.

Reno exhaled, releasing a plume of smoke before flicking his second cigarette of the morning onto the loose gravel of Don Corneo's driveway. Although daylight held no significant authority in this part of the world, the vast majority still followed the normal patterns of sleep. The poor would wake early to breakfasts spiked with pills to manage their seasonal affective disorders, whilst the rich and powerful, of which there were few, would sleep till the evening and bathe in the neon glow of debauchery, making the best of the beautiful gutter they called home.

Being aware of this, he did not have to approach the building as furtively as he normally would, realising the guards would also be nursing hangovers from their parties with The Don's female leftovers.

He straightened the lapels of his jacket and composed himself once more, constantly reassuring himself that he was _the man_. After taking in another refreshing gulp of somewhat stagnant air, he tapped the EMR against the door's key pad, short-circuiting the security system to unlock the door, expecting an alarm system to blare out and wake the entire neighbourhood. Hearing nothing, he tentatively opened the door and wandered into the empty foyer.

Leaving the door ajar, hoping the sounds of distant cars would supersede the eerie white noise around him, he crept onwards, his intuition pushing him towards the basement rather than the upper floors. He knew The Don never mixed business with pleasure, and, as much as he wanted to ransack the area and make corpses of every sleaze-ball here, he had to remain under the radar for Jake's sake. The guard by the front door was an obvious inevitability, but any kill hereupon would just be a bonus.

He had relaxed his tense aiming posture by the time he had reached the maids' quarters downstairs, wandering through the stuffy hallways undisturbed, his gun rousing no interest amongst the foreign workforce. They kept to themselves, muttering in their mother tongue as they swept the floors and polished the sculptures.

The ability to escape forced marriages and the practice of a twisted culture––once beautiful, now tainted by modern man––had accounted for the mass exodus of women from Wutai ten years ago. Escorted by Shinra's soldiers during the waning months of the Great War, the larger groups huddled under blankets between empty crates of cargo planes, whilst the single women fled from overbearing spouses in cigarette boats lined with kilos of tobacco and coca leaves. They travelled to Midgar in the hopes of finding the freedom to work and earn their own bread, the right to been seen as equals amongst men, and the prospect to live a life of their choosing. Unfortunately, they soon discovered that their emigration had not been coordinated by humanitarians hoping to destroy prejudice, but by the privates that wished to take home small fragments of this exotic culture with them. Under the guise of appearing charitable, and under the noses of their clueless superiors, they had smuggled the native women, bringing them from one world of oppression to another, converting them from slaves of innocent ignorance to slaves of sin.

As waves of soldiers retreated from Wutaian soil, the numbers of foreign women in brothels boomed. The exploitation of these women had initially been for personal gain only, but more of them were found under the supervision of thugs and flesh vendors across the plate, pushed away from the soldiers either as a result of their desire to settle down and begin families with their wives and girlfriends, due to sheer boredom of a once exciting game, or simply through growing fear of being caught. And, by the end of the war, the majority of these victims had been sold to Don Corneo, living in eternal misery and regret.

Halting by an open door along the corridor, Reno screwed the silencer on his gun and peered inside, seeing nothing more than two sets of motionless legs in a dishevelled bed sheet. Holding his gun aloft, allowing it to enter before him, he stepped inside to see a sleeping man with flabby arms wrapped around the waist of a tearful maid, her naked body marred by cuts and bruises. Holding a finger to his lips to prevent her from emitting a sound, he slowly approached the man, the deliberately loud sound of his gun cocking waking him immediately. Staring directly down the barrel, the man gulped hard, obeying the finger still pressed to Reno's lips.

"Where's the boy?" Reno whispered, assured the man understood the dangers of screaming for help.

"W-What boy?"

With a sigh of a disappointment, Reno turned to the shivering maid, catching her attention with a snap of his fingers. He smiled warmly at her before he delivered a line of fluent Wutaian, unintelligible to the brute lying beside her. Obeying his instruction, she slipped off the bed and removed an old dishcloth from her laundry basket, appearing a little more confident in the knowledge of impending retribution. After stuffing the dirty cloth into the man's mouth, now shivering as he abdicated his role of domination to her, she nodded at Reno and left the room after quickly collecting her garments.

"The boy in question is my partner's son. I won't lie to you; doing something like this alone isn't as easy as I thought it would be. I'll need a little time to adjust, that's for sure. For instance, I'm gonna have to change my good cop/bad cop routine. You see, without my partner, we have no good cop. So–" he mused aloud, bashing the butt of his gun against the man's nose with all his might, fearing language alone would not get his message across. "We'll just have to settle for the bad cop."

He waited for the muffled screams to fully subside before slowly removing the now bloody handkerchief from his victim's mouth.

"You'd have probably gotten away with three or four more lies before the element of violence was brought into the equation. That's if we had a good cop with us. I think it's just about frightening you. It's like loosening your bowels so that it's easier to kick the shit out of you."

"Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?" the man spluttered, a smile growing across his prominent lips.

Taken aback, Reno tried to regroup his thoughts, wondering why the bad cop/no good cop routine was failing so quickly.

"You know, just like a flake of snow, no man's preferred method of torture is the same. I, in particular, choose to pay incredibly close attention to the areas of the body that have the largest innervations of nerve cells, like the genitals, or the cornea for example. The latter is actually so sensitive that... how can I put it? OK, I got it. Imagine putting a grain of dirt on the palm of your hand. You'll barely feel it. But if you put that same grain of dirt in your eye, you won't be able to sit still until you get it out." He picked a corkscrew off the bedside table, pulling off the fragrant wine cork before admiring its spirals of dull metal. "Now, if at all possible, try to imagine me dragging this corkscrew down the front of your eyes until they perforate and burst, spewing foul tasting fluids down your cheeks to your lips."

"Give it your best shot," the man whispered, tucking his hands behind his head with a smile that matured into a chortle.

No longer stunned, as though he had been in this situation before, Reno placed the corkscrew back on the table and nodded. "There's someone behind me, isn't there?"

"There's a whole group of _someones_ behind you," a voice erupted from the shadows. "Now drop your gun, put your hands up, and shut the fuck up. It's our turn to do the talkin'."

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 10:19am – Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

The dead body by the door could only be construed as a bad omen by the laywoman and the Turks alike.

For Tifa, it only solidified the sordidness of the situation. The lifeless eyes gazed up at her, wide open as though pleading for mercy, reminding her that every piece of scum in this building was a human being. Although they did not deserve to breathe the stale air of the slums, they still had an influence on the planet like everyone else. He could have had a wife, children, an innocent family that deserved to live in a little luxury. Who was to say he had not begun his life here as a means of providing for them, slowly allowing the infectious lifestyle of the Don to corrupt him and expose his primitive instincts.

The Turks, of course, had been taught to think otherwise, to dissociate the life from the target, conditioned with phrases such as _removing dissidents from a political equation_ as opposed to_ murdering enemies of the state_.

Tseng approached the body apprehensively, noting the colour had not yet left the cheeks. "He's looks warm," he commented, maintaining his distance from the pool of blood under the guards back. "Whoever killed him must have done so relatively recently."

"You're certain he's dead?" Rude asked.

Tseng shrugged. Like the toads they were, Turk victims usually resorted to playing dead, only to jump to life with their concealed weapon as the Shinra agents knelt to measure their pulses, exposed in such a vulnerable position. So the new procedure involved checking the victim was conscious in a manner that did not leave an agent vulnerable to attack, stretching the boundaries of dissociating the life from the target even farther. This method, coined by Reno of all people, was quick and simple: kick the victim in the groin.

After doing so, and witnessing no reaction, Tseng moved closer to check the man's pulse.

"Yes. I'm certain."

"How do you think this resulted?" Rude asked, examining the body. "Treachery amongst the perverted?"

"Possibly," Tseng murmured, wondering if his plan to march Reno into Kauffman's office had been a good idea. Under enough scrutiny from Heidegger, awaiting political upheaval as rebels no longer feared to revolt, he could not afford to let Rude learn of Reno's involvement in this whole mess and lose his team.

"OK," Tseng continued. "I'll go through the west entrance. Rude, you take her with you through here."

"What?" Tifa asked, unable to let her opinions go unexpressed.

"Oh. Would you rather go with _me_ instead?" he retorted, the sarcasm striking her like a venomous fang.

"That's not what I meant," she replied, much to Rude's relief. "It's just that I would rather you didn't refer to me as some damsel that needs to be taken by the hand lest, heaven forbid, I get lost or break a heel!"

As though silently applauding her temerity, he curled his lips to a wry smile. "You honestly believe I am pairing you up so that I can account for your safety? Personally I don't have anything against you, but I won't exactly shed a tear if you get hurt right now." He tried not to appear overly detached in front of Rude, but still had to put Tifa in her place. "No, to be truthful, I am pairing you up with Rude for _Rude's_ safety. With you around he'll be twice as cautious. And you will be too, now that you have a point to prove." Ignoring her huff of irritation, he moved on. "Now remember, press the distress button three times when you find Jake. We'll all regroup here."

"Yes sir," Rude responded obediently, turning to Tifa. "How you feeling?"

"That's the million gil question," she responded, refastening her leather gloves as she gazed absentmindedly into the distance. "After you. I insist."

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 10:26am – Basement Bar, Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

"So, what's your poison?" Corneo asked, tapping Reno's cheek to regain his attention.

Rolling his head away from the chubby fingers, unaware of where they had been, Reno struggled in his seat, trying to wriggle free of the ropes that bound him. He tried not to let the scent of alcohol and cigar smoke intoxicate him, turning a room of future pain into the room he would not mind dying in. No matter how hard he tried, even though this was supposed to represent the bad taste of the perverted, he couldn't help but feel he was right at home amongst the assholes that thought fedoras, trench coats and moustaches were cool. If he had not joined the military at such a young age he could definitely see himself here, slipping into the world of stylish stereotypes with the utmost of ease. The lifestyle was no big change: murder, drugs, alcohol, suits, jazz, and late nights. But the added advantage of forgoing paperwork and completely eliminating one's conscience rather than ignoring it as best one could made the prospect of joining the mafia seem all the more irresistible.

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. After all, the transition would only be from one form of evil to another. The only problem with immersing himself in a crowd suffering a severe paucity of decency would be a new ability to condone rape and sexual slavery, possibly even exploiting the power to enjoy such behaviour. He would follow the criminal's code by never ratting out one of his comrades, but would he go so far as to risk his life to save the son of such a person? Would he be able to distinguish between his feelings of lust and love? Or would he finally realise that love was just an over-exaggeration of lust?

It was almost sad to think that if he had become like one of these vile creatures, he never would have betrayed Rude in the first place.

"I asked you a question!" Corneo boomed, his tap evolving to a slap.

Reno mumbled a few inaudible phrases under his breath before rolling his eyes up to meet those of the Don's. "My poison? Depends. We talking literally here?"

"What makes you think we want to kill you?"

"C'mon, don't dick me around, Corneo. I know the ropes. _You_ know that I know the ropes, OK? You caught me sneaking around here, you've searched me and found guns but no trace of cash, and you're quite frankly sick of the sight of me."

After pouring a glass of whiskey, Corneo returned to Reno's side, wafting it under his nose, laughing as the Turk squirmed in his seat. "I hear it's the drink of choice amongst you blue-suits."

"That's just a bed time story. I think we adopted the cyanide and whiskey gag in an attempt to add the missing element of film noir from our occupation. No, we actually have to follow a really boring protocol when it comes to dispatching renegade Turks. First we shoot them. Then we strip the flesh from their bones, internal organs included, and incinerate said bones in a mako reactor furnace. Finally, we grind the flesh up and serve it as Sloppy Joes to unsuspecting consumers down here in the Slums."

Turning to the sound of vomiting, Corneo glared at a disgusting puddle soaking into his carpet. "He's bullshitting, you fucking moron. Now clean that up and finish your damn burger!"

"I shit you not, Don. In fact, it's pretty much how we take care of all our victims. I mean, there can be no farms down here where there is no light, and there are none up on the plate where there is no soil. So, how else do you think you get your meat so cheaply down here?" His grin was like a dagger in the Don's stomach. "I suppose it's not very film noir but it does have an aspect of horror in there."

Sighing at the sound of yet more vomiting, the Don hastily abandoned the routine and cut to the chase.

"Alright, Turk, just tell me why you're here."

"I came for the kid."

Not expecting such a concise response, the Don shuffled back, almost as though the dice had been stolen from this very special game. One slap and the truth had come out? Was that it? He knew he was way out of his league when it came to talking the talk, especially in Reno's presence, and that would be something he could work on later, venturing away from his overpowering desire to sleep with women and moving towards the life of a real mob boss. But he could only take baby steps, supported by a little more confidence that would arrive once he emulated the fictional mafia dons living in his DVD collection. He had rehearsed every torture scene in front of the bathroom mirror, fumbling the lines a lot, but remembering every last action to an eidetic degree. He could picture men being thrown in wood chippers, or having their fingers and toes cut off with pliers, or forced to drink gallons of their favourite beverage until they drowned. He had been hinting at the latter with the whiskey, hoping it would tie in nicely with the rumours he had heard about Turk torture. But what was the point now? Where was the fun?

Angrily, Corneo threw the glass across the full length of the room to the fireplace, the miniature explosion appeasing him slightly.

"Do I look like a negotiable man to you?"

"No," Reno replied calmly, shaking his head. "You look like a lard-ass that barely has enough self-esteem to think he's got the _slightest_ sliver of a chance of getting a woman's consent before having intercourse with her, which, I'm guessing, stems from either a painful childhood or your disgusting bitch tits." He thought for a moment before returning his gaze to Corneo. "If my balls were on the line, I'd say it's because of the bitch tits."

Feeling the testosterone fuel the fire within his belly, The Don removed a pen knife from his pocket and jammed it into Reno's shoulder blade, stealing the opening scene from one of his favourite movies, enjoying the rush of euphoria as he twisted the blade and felt the vibrations of Reno's shrieks travel up the cold metal to his fingers.

"Y'know, it's about time you Turks started treating me with respect. I'm sick of being walked on by the likes of you egotistical jerks."

Still gasping for air, Reno tried to absorb the visual information before him: twenty or so hit-men behind the maniacal, corpulent moron. Looking for an escape route would have been pointless. He would just have to succumb to the torture, praying Dr. Kauffman's promise of confidentiality was only superficial. If so, Tseng would be right on his tail, following the scent of guilt to the basement of The Don's mansion any minute now. His last hope to save Jake and truly absolve his sins had become nothing more than a waiting game. He just had to keep Corneo occupied.

"I've never seen you resort to violence like this before, Corneo."

"Oh, mark my words; this is only the beginning of the change." He wandered over to the bar, encompassed by an aura of confidence that seeped in through his skin, developing at the sight of fresh blood, and strengthening his ability to talk the fabled talk. After pouring another glass of whiskey, he looked back and began to write his own script. "Are you a religious man, Reno?"

"Are you shitting me?"

The bulky mob boss nodded at one of his men, a signal for him to trudge forward and twist the blade further.

Between screeches, Reno managed to articulate a response. "Yes! Yes!"

"That's good to hear. I suppose it reinforces your decision to come down into the lions' den really." After dropping a few ice cubes in his glass, he turned to face Reno, now wincing in agony, and continued. "When I was growing up I always used to love listening to the stories from the Bible. Every single one of them was literary dynamite with complex characters and deep underlying messages. I think my favourite is The Binding of Isaac. The story brings a tear to my eye even now. The interpretation can vary, but the message is clear and simple: it's a story about the power of human faith.

"Now, I wonder how far you're faith stretches, Reno. You have faith in your superior. You think he's going to come bursting in through these doors and save you right away, don't you? Tell me, how strong is your faith in Tseng?"

"Stronger than my faith in God," Reno whispered boldly.

"Really? I wonder how God would feel about that. Perhaps we should put the power of His forgiveness to the test and write a new story. I think I'll call it _The Binding of Jake_."

"You lay a finger on that kid and I swear to—"

"Who? To whom will you swear?" Corneo cackled at the prolonged silence, his confidence shooting sky high, encouraged by the verbal victory over the King of the Gab. "We'll see how seriously the Turks take me after I sacrifice one of their offspring. And I suppose we'll see if _God_ will intervene." He turned to address his men. "Take him to Room 101. And for God's sake, someone clean up this puke!"

Rolling his head back, Reno closed his eyes tight, squeezing out a tear.

If God truly was as spiteful as he had always thought, then he was in some serious trouble. If not, perhaps it was time to start praying for a miracle.

* * *

**A/N**

This chapter is a little rushed, even though it took two weeks to write. Oh, and if I haven't already told you, this obviously isn't the end of the story. What I should have said before was that the final scene was approaching rather than the final chapter. Anyway, I doubt there will be more than one (two at maximum) chapters left. I started my third year of university four weeks ago and I'm really pressed for time. I'm just so annoyed about my previous computer dying in the summer. I wasted three weeks! Could have had this story finished a month ago before I even started Uni!

Oh well. I will try and upload the final chapter(s) as fast as I can, fuelled by your (Amanda & MC) brilliant support. Until then.

aardy.


	23. Revelation

**23**

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 10:40am – Upper Plate_**

The melancholy weep of the violin lilted through the cold air, aimlessly trying to grapple the heartstrings of passersby, not only to make a few measly gil, but also to enchant humankind with the beauty of music, hoping to halt their trivial lives if only for a moment so they could appreciate something more important than money.

Unfortunately, like everyone else, the beauty was lost on the amnesiac.

Struggling to keep warm in his wet clothes, he embraced his knees, rocking back and forth to regain the sensation in his thighs. The bus shelter had become the perfect little niche and residence to the miscellany of neglected people in the outskirts of the strange city, protecting them from the icy cloudburst with half an inch of laminated glass. After wandering for what felt like an eternity, he had found the possible home of his kind, still unable to escape the monolithic structure sprouting from the city centre like a huge deity watching over the life around it. He recognised the symbol grafted to its belly, dragging him back through the wrought iron gates of his nightmares via flashes of intense light, often accompanied by migraines that, although brief in duration, were tremendously painful. It was the very same world from which he had escaped, guarded by the bespectacled spectre in the laboratory labelled _Shinra_.

Everything pointed to the tall structure of concrete as though it was an expanding singularity from which all had originated. The denizens of this tiny universe followed the commands of the deity blindly, ignoring the suffering of the few to protect the masses, or so they believed. He shamelessly thought that he and his newfound brethren were the crazy ones, their minds sullied with iconoclastic thoughts and apocalyptic messages. But the city's drones in their soigné attire and flashy vehicles were the true image of insanity, taking pride in their ignorance, overlooking the destructive capabilities of their leaders.

He could not blame them, however. Had he not undergone such torment there would be no reason to doubt that his life would be similar to theirs.

The thought roused a wry smile. As of a few hours ago, his very existence, once as nebulous as the fog rolling through the city before him, had been tagged with a name. It was to mark the origin of his regenerating memory, the foundations of which would teach him who and what he truly was. Deep in his gut, although he presently bore several similarities to them, he knew he shouldn't belong with the vagrants beside him. Surely he was destined to do bigger and better things. But now, with his name and his hopes obliterated, he was back to square one, a soul thrust into the big bad world with all the naivety of a newborn.

Of course, his name was no longer Zack Fair, but that did not mean he was no longer a SOLDIER. The soles of his boots were marked with the same symbol of oppression, scuffed and plastered in dry mud after interminable marches through jungles and marshland. They were military boots, his only connection to the corruption within the Shinra building. He also owned a sword of incongruous size that held no benefit as a weapon of personal protection. It surely had been forged in mako powered fires for a warrior to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy.

He was that anonymous warrior, that SOLDIER: First Class. He had been a part of the very fabric of evil that he silently mocked alongside the vagrants. And so, even if offered infinite fortunes, he would never join their ranks again, far happier here in the gutter.

If only he could lose this connection with Shinra and build a new life. But the foundations of this new life and his name had gone missing, drifting away with the wind.

His eyes turned to the hands of his brethren as they cupped together in torn gloves at the sight of a pedestrian. He instinctively copied them, unable to prevent them from shaking.

The passerby took a look at the collection of human scum and scoffed as he buried his neck further under his jacket collar.

Somewhat disheartened by the stranger's indifference, the amnesiac returned his gaze to the violinist. His bow continued to caress the strings; his fingers continued to dance along the neck. Completely unfazed, the musician poured his heart out on to the street in the form of a beautiful lullaby.

Although his memories of aural sensations were somewhat depleted, he soon allowed the voiceless euphony to soothe his aching spirit. The musician, seated humbly on the damp concrete before an open case containing a meagre collection of coins, could very well have been a concert violinist. He could have sold out an enormous amphitheatre at a thousand gil per seat to play such music to the very same men that scoffed at him or the mothers that tugged the arms of enraptured children away from the filthy misfit in rags.

Could sartorial elegance and location really alter the beauty of music? Did it sound less enchanting from the bus shelter, emerging from the soul of a lower class citizen? Or were the passersby too engrossed in the rat race to simply stop and appreciate the masterpiece? Either way, it did little to heighten his image of Shinra's lackeys, and, now more than ever, he could not wait to get off this godforsaken floating city.

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 10:42am – Room 101, Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

Reno could see nothing more than three dimensions of black, trapped in an existence divorced from sensation. After a mere matter of minutes, the room began to produce its effects, instilling the fear of the unknown within him through a medium of silence. He could sense others in the room, whether they were illusory or genuine, and wondered what they were doing. Perhaps they were keeping an eye on him with infra-red cameras, wielding weapons as they drew nearer from the front and behind. Perhaps they were going to douse him in liquid mako and set him alight. Or perhaps they had discovered his severe arachnophobia and had begun to litter the room with spiders.

Reno shuddered violently at the thought of such vile looking creatures and whistled, hoping the shrill noise would slice through the monotony and his fear. He knew he did not have to question his presence in the room; it was a trick used by the Turks alike, originating from tales of the Ancient Cetra. The sensory deprivation was supposed to mimic death: the isolation, the darkness, the fear. They believed that all souls, although vibrant and energetic in the life-stream, lose all perception of the world around them, floating in an abyss of nothingness with an eternity to think and reflect on past actions. They were provided with this period of reflection to beg their creator for forgiveness. Every last detail of every last sin had to be accounted for and forgiven before one could transubstantiate from empty vessels to celestial beings. And if one sin was left forgotten, the life of nothingness would eternally remain.

Of course, he did not believe in all that hocus-pocus, but with nothing else to engross his mind, he had to contend with recycled memories.

He thought about his life, and about the sins he had committed. From the present life of alcohol and murder, traversing years to his childhood in the poverty stricken village of Mideel, he could not conjure any memory that brought a smile to his lips. He occasionally had a laugh with Rude when off duty, but always got too drunk off his ass to remember anything. Then there had been the memories of dates with girlfriends past. The first dates were always the most boring, usually involving a bar but no drinking, a huge rack but no nudity, and hours of listening to a woman talk about the amazing intuition of her pet cat. They would eventually get to that stage of a more mature disposition, usually at her place, and would finish shortly after, as it could only ever be a quick fuck and a _see you later_ with Reno.

There was always Tifa, and as much as he tried to ignore her, he just did not have the mental strength to do so. She materialised before him, a real manifestation of the love of his life rather than a simple hallucination. When he looked back at his time with her, he realised his smiles were genuine. He would have actually enjoyed listening to her talk about her cat, just to hear that funny Nibelheimian accent, or to see that beautiful expression of affection.

Looking around him, still unable to penetrate the darkness, he reconsidered the effects of this method of torture that he had once implemented himself. Perhaps the memories borne of such conditions were mere thought processes trapped in his subconscious? Dreams were apparently the lingua franca for such thoughts to be expressed, but they were also liable to misinterpretation and were usually lost after the first few blinks of the eye. Here, he was immersed in a medium that reflected his inner self. And if that was the case, then Tifa may have simply been an answer to the desperate questioning of his subconscious. After all, all of the women before her had been equally beautiful, equally intelligent, and equally affectionate. He could have picked any one of them, taken them by the hand, and run away to the most remote part of the planet where he could be who he wanted to be. He could have lived in the sultry towns lining the equator or the gelid ice caps of the poles and would not care as long as he could leave this nightmare of a life behind.

He no longer wanted this job, and she was his way out, his excuse. But he didn't want to just see her that way. He wanted to see her as his diamond amongst the rubble, his saviour in this time of need, his angel amongst sinners. She was his expression of freedom, his reason to throw the blue suit away and run away into the sunset. Sure, it had taken years of soul crushing work and several unsuccessful attempts at chasing the relationship beyond sex, but it was finally out in the open.

The revelation stole the wind from his lungs, rendering him incapable of whistling.

Yes. He would quit. He would find her, he would forgive her, and he would quit.

And what a perfect time to do so.

In the wake of recent events, he had been deployed as Shinra's secret weapon as the emotionless villain. The wires and explosives had been connected and waiting for the past few weeks. One little red button stood between the life and death of half a million people, and his finger had been selected to press it.

Thinking about it now, the very pressure of such a responsibility could have easily been the catalyst that sparked this change. With so many things going wrong for the organisation, he could not take another failure, and with a sickening growth of faith, he feared he would not be able to take the guilt. Jake's kidnap was bad enough.

Of course, there was the chance he would never live to see the end of this day. Even if Tseng did come to their rescue, a perfect escape would not be a certainty, and his plan to elope with Tifa would just crumble under the impetus of his heavy conscience. If he could not get Jake to safety, he would prefer to die here, to be trapped in this harsh world of monotony, forever pleading for forgiveness.

Inhaling heavily, no longer fearing the darkness, he closed his eyes. Most of the paths he could take in life would become dead-ends in a very short time period. With any luck, he would be able to walk down the long road into greener pastures. But what were the chances of that happening?

Barely audible, he began to recount every sin he could remember committing and begged for mercy. After all, if his demise was lurking around the corner, the practice could do him no harm.

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 10:43am – Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

There was no fear.

According to Tifa's former sensei, Zangan, trivial emotions like fear had evolved millennia ago to protect the weak against the threats of the world, successfully pushing mankind to develop brains in the absence of brawn. Of course, she did not dispel the notion that such development was essential for her current lifestyle, but had learned that the definition of a true warrior is she that does not turn her back in fear. And she could only accomplish this by following an age old expression: _fail to prepare; prepare to fail_.

If a warrior knows everything about her adversary, then she can decide what course of action to take. It goes without saying that ignoring a fight that is impossible to win is not foolish. The principle only holds when one ignores a fight through _fear _of losing. How can justice prevail otherwise?

It wasn't as though she had forgotten fear, or had forcefully eradicated it through meditation. It was certainly present when she had been caught selling alcohol illegally in her flat, when she first awoke in this hell hole of a city, and when she chased General Sephiroth through the burning reactor, the fear somewhat dampened by fury and an overpowering desire to seek vengeance. But in those instances the element of preparation had been eliminated from the equation.

So it begged the question: how could she wander through the dark hallways of Don Corneo's mansion, completely unprepared, without feeling a single ounce of fear?

Of all the possible answers, she hoped the stocky Turk ahead of her had no part to play in any one of them, but knew that that would be hoping for too much. Of course, she would not be able to keep a straight face and say she would rather do this alone. She just did not know how to convey her feelings without damaging her self-esteem or her dignity. Deep down she knew he was good person that had simply become the victim of her misguided anger and that she would remain forever confused until the fabled conveyance finally surfaced.

Rude led the path, standing tall to cover Tifa as far as he possibly could. He had gone over a series of military hand signals on the way over in the helicopter, hoping to communicate with her here in silence. She had no desire to implement Shinra-borne language herself, but obeyed his commands when he chose to use them, stopping by a corner at the sight of his elevated arm.

Concealing his gun, he peered around the bend, spotting three guards smoking cigarettes as they conversed quietly amongst themselves. Inhaling deeply, he turned to face her, holding three fingers aloft. She nodded.

Shooting them would have been pointless. Even with the employment of a silencer, gunfire would inevitably attract unwanted attention and was far too messy. Blood was an obvious indicator of wrongdoings that could easily be traced back to them, and invisibility was currently of the utmost importance. That didn't go to say that he couldn't kill them. All that stood between life and death for these people was a twist of the neck. But he still would rather not to prevent Tifa from seeing that side of him. Jake had been the last loved one to witness his dark side, and he would do anything to keep it that way. Of course, Tifa wasn't exactly a_ loved one_. Well, not yet anyway.

"Wait here," he whispered, moving closer to her ear, allowing proximity to amplify his breathy command. "I'll sneak around the back and creep up on them from the other side of the corridor. Keep a look out for me. When you can see me, wait for my signal. We'll move in and attack them as furtively as possible."

"We could do it that way," she responded in an equally susurrant tone. "Or we could do it this way."

Wriggling free from the conversation and any further protest, she hiked up her skirt and wandered out into the hallway's opening, coughing gently to catch the guards' attention. They immediately drew their Glocks, only to lower them gradually at the sight of alluringly long legs.

The shortest guard, a scrawny little man too small for his suit, spat his cigarette into a nearby mop bucket and winked. "What are you doing down here, Sweetheart?"

Trying not to cringe at the disgusting misuse of a term of endearment, she smiled warmly and began the airhead routine. "I think I'm lost. This building is _so_ big." She threw in a girly giggle for good measure.

"Well, The Don's bedroom is upstairs, Honey. You can't miss it, it's the biggest one. But he'll be a little busy for a few hours, so you might have to entertain yourself for a little while."

Ignoring the flurry of hand signals from around the corner and the bile crawling up the back of her throat, she giggled again. "I wasn't trying to find the bedroom, _Silly_. I was looking for the bathroom. I was going to take a shower but I think the zipper on my skirt is stuck. I wandered down here looking for a big, strong man to help me with it. Can one of you help me?" she asked, turning around to look at her skirt, stroking her thigh up to her backside to feel for the caught zip.

Snapping out of his trance first, the tallest guard wiped the drool from his bottom lip as he pushed the other two aside, edging forward with great fervour. "I'll help with you that, Darling."

"No, Lewis, I can handle it," the smaller guard interrupted, quickly following behind.

The third guard, an older man buried under shaggy curls of grey hair, followed after the others, not assertive enough to chime in and cop a feel of the buxom beauty, but still game for a close inspection. On the tip of his toes, he peered over the shoulders of his colleagues as they batted one another's hand away to reach for the zipper, the smile wiped right off his face as a heavy fist clubbed the base of his neck. The thud of his limp body colliding with the ground stole the other two's attention long enough for them to forget about the damsel in distress, leaving them both exposed for a kick to the groin. Making sure they could not reach for their guns, Rude tasered them both, incapacitating them with a non lethal blast of electricity.

He could have easily racked up the current and stopped the beating of their little shrivelled hearts, sending them to their pauper's grave a little early.

Dragging their bodies out of immediate view, Rude counted them lucky. He dusted off his hands and tried not to glare at Tifa like a father reprimanding his teenage daughter, clearly failing.

"What the hell was that?"

"What? I thought it was pretty clever," she replied, pulling her skirt back to its original position.

"We're supposed to be working as a team here."

"Look, I don't know what your definition of the word _team _is, but it isn't the same as mine. As far as your boss is concerned, I'm just a disposable assistant. And as far as you're concerned... well, I don't even know how you feel about me. But judging from the way you keep acting around me, I'm guessing I don't want to know."

She had been dropping subtle hints to push him away ever since he knocked on her door yesterday. Once the affectionate friend that told him she could _feel_ the good within him, she had become the 'disposable assistant' that would rather let three goons ogle over her backside in lieu of putting her trust in him. Hoping this was nothing more than an ephemeral mood swing, he had sidestepped most of the verbal landmines she had planted before his feet with a grin and the memory of the woman of last week. But now, as she ditched the landmines for lead bullets fired at point blank range, he could ignore it no longer, seeking the origins of her altered perspective.

"You know what? I'm not going to hide it anymore. I like you, OK? I like you a lot. I know we may not be the most compatible of people, and I know you would rather die than join the ranks of some Shinra scumbag, but I know you have a good heart that is capable of forgiveness and warmth. I mean, I'm not asking you for a relationship, but somewhere along the line I thought we could be friends at least. The way you talked to me last week in your bar, the way you got me talking: nobody has had that kind of impact on me in a long time."

"Please don't do this. I can't deal with this right now, Rude. I can't––"

"This isn't who I am, it's just what I do, and you _know _that," he exclaimed, his piercing gaze locked in frustration. "I could see it in your eyes that day. I could _feel _it when you kissed me."

"That kiss was a mistake. I never meant it to––"

"I don't care about what the kiss meant. I care about what it represents: your ability to see past the darkness, past the suit and the shades, at the person I really am. I just... I just want to know where _that_ Tifa Lockhart is."

"I'm sorry, Rude. I left _that_ Tifa Lockhart outside this pervert's mansion because I didn't want to let her naivety, in the presence of a killer searching for his mute son in said pervert's mansion, become her downfall. You may think you are all innocent on the inside and that you don't have a choice in all of this, but you do. We all do!" she retorted. "Your son saw you violently murder a man for the sake of your career, and instead of throwing away your gun, you carried on anyway, you hypocrite! I mean, how do you have the gall to stand there and accuse _me_ of failing to see the good inside you when you can't even see it yourself?"

He drew a shallow breath and conceded with a nod of the head. "I'm sorry, Tifa."

"Look, we can talk about this later. Right now we have something more important to deal with," she said, drying the tear tracks under her eyes with her palm as she strayed farther from his prying eyes and into those of engulfing shadows. Accompanied by nothing more than the sound of her own laboured breathing, she stopped, awaiting his reply. "Right?"

Instinctively, before the word _run _could even surf atop the swell of his breath and strike her ears, she bolted into the shadows with monumental celerity, clamping her ears as the bullets flashed through the darkness like raucous claps of thunder. Trained to heighten her sense of perception in states of conflict, a mere millisecond of silence was enough to set her legs in motion. As her battle philosophy dictated, ignoring a fight that one cannot win is not foolish, and she knew her fists, as strong as they were, could not take down what sounded like twenty angry gunmen.

None of this smelled right. From all the legends and actual facts she could recall regarding the Turks, she could not believe one could be foiled so easily, especially by the likes of Corneo's gang. The men and women that donned the infamous blue suits could only be so privileged if they proved their worth to the nth degree through decades of laborious toil and endless examinations. Branded as the espionage world's equivalent to Second Class SOLDIERs, they were known for their incredible guile and an even more incredible will to survive. They could organise raids from maximum security prisons to subterranean diamond vaults with no more than three men and their ingenuity to concoct an impregnable plan. Again, abiding by her sacred doctrine, they never failed to prepare.

She tried not to scream as a blindly fired bullet shaved a strip of skin off her shoulder before boring a hole through the ceiling, allowing small shafts of light to dissolve in the darkness. As she swept an extended arm across the wall, her fingers becoming her eyes, guiding her through the snaking turns of the unlit hallway, she closed her eyes and prayed another batch of guards were not waiting for her ahead. It would have been the perfect ambush, the sign of a perfectly impregnable plan.

The thought almost hit her like a freight train, but she knew this bore the hallmark of a Turk manoeuvre. As AVALANCHE's benefactor, she had become the source of Shinra's turmoil, the key figure to destroy in order to dry up the rivulets of rebellion that could otherwise merge and become a genuine threat. Blinded by false affection and the love of a parent for his child, a love she still could not fully fathom, she had fallen prey to their intricate plan.

Approaching the end of the corridor, she began to club the wall with her fists, her lungs tearing as she screeched for help. At the sound of her voice, the gunfire stopped immediately, the transient flashes replaced by intensely bright lamplight. Turning, her back against the wall, she gawked at the parade of gunmen like a victim of a mob hit, shading her bloodshot eyes with her hands, her nose streaming, her body shaking in fear. Staring death in the face, she embraced the fear, ignoring her duty to perceive death as a natural component of life. Truth be told, she was terrified. Led to this position by the devil's seductions, she could throw away the facade of bravery and become the little girl she never had the chance to be, safe and warm in the presence of her loving parents.

"Put your hands up!"

The phrase preceded the cocking and aiming of guns, the sounds of which dragged her limp arms into the air.

"Identify yourself!"

At first, she dared not speak through fear. However, after a few cleansing breaths, her reticence had evolved through happy thoughts. Whatever she chose to say, however she chose to act, this was always destined to end the same way. Her presence on this planet may never leave a mark in the annals of history as she would have hoped, but she had at least left her impression in the hearts of her friends and family. She would forever be remembered as Marlene's big sister and best friend; as Barret's tamer, earning his loyalty with her nonpareil sense of morality; as the only person that would spare Jessie's feelings regarding her rather unfortunate taste in art; as Wedge's favourite chef, serving all the meals he remembered from his childhood; and as Biggs' wingman, helping him acquire more numbers than a telephone directory. And, although these facets were tiny, they would all be held dear to the hearts of her kindred spirits, as all of their memories would in hers. Fully aware that she simply had to endure this ephemeral pain, she would lose the facade with the utmost ease and return to her parents' side, finally freed from the shackles of her own shadow.

Of course, had the image of those scarlet tresses not suddenly appeared in her mind, she would have been able to join them with a smile on her face.

"I said, identify yourself!"

Halting for a few moments more, she wished to deliver a noteworthy final remark, for her breath to carry a witticism to blow her audience off their feet.

Puckering her lips for the final quotation, she released a meagre syllable before a solid wave of heat slammed her against the wall, the template of her body against the bricks living amongst spattered blood.

Quailing in shock, she slowly lifted herself off the ground, hoping the ringing in her ears would soon subside. Unable to see anything through the blanket of smoke drifting above the mountain of rubble and mangled limbs, she fell back down on her bottom, her legs unable to take the stress any longer, and whimpered in confusion.

Leaning back, she tried to catch her breath once more, wondering whether her final line would have blown them off their feet as literally as the unforeseen explosion.

* * *

**A/N**

One final chapter left. It's a big one, but I'm going to challenge myself to write it all before the end of the weekend. I really need to start doing some work for University and I need to stop procrastinating when there is fanfiction that needs writing. So, hopefully the next forty-eight hours will not be the worst of my life.

Wish me luck, guys.

Until then.

aardy.


	24. Revenge

**24**

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 10:47am – Room 101, Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

Reno quailed in shock, woken from slumber by a deep rumble and bone rattling tremors. Disoriented, he tried to stand, restricted by the ropes binding his arms to a chair, burning his skin as they scraped against it. His groans of pain, however, were immediately silenced as a glaring light struck his eyes.

The first was the brightest. It split through the darkness and the vibrant hallucinations of vigilantes claiming sanguinary justice for the sins he had forgotten to recall, originating as a rectangular eclipse and creeping along the floor, illuminating rusted shackles chained to the walls and floors bedaubed in all four cardinal humours and all forms of human waste. The pale, dead limbs bound to the shackles, starved of fresh air and daylight, were the first images to strike his eyes, the impulses passing from his occipital lobes to higher cortical regions, linking pictures to memories and memories to emotions.

This chamber, Reno thought, had to be the Don's storage den for his trafficking operations.

After Shinra had caught wind of the slums' surge in imported slavery during the culminating months of the Wutai War, his concerns over its pending effects on his economy led him to order the genocide of all Wutaian women caught without work permits, ordering his soldiers to commit such atrocities, blind to the fact that the very same soldiers were responsible for bringing them to his land in the first place. It was a command totally befitting his character. Avoiding the arduous task of exiling them, or imposing restrictions on slavery, he chose to simply drop his cigar in the ant hill and warm his hands by the fire.

Amazingly, the scandal reached monumental heights in terms of personnel involvement, almost creeping to the highest rung of the ladder: the head of the Turks. Aware of the reality that he would have his head on a platter if Shinra discovered that the machination had not only been green-lighted but also implemented by him, Heidegger removed the mission from the khakis and charitably donated it to the aspirant blue suits in boot camp.

The Turks, even the trainees, were skilled at handling hush-hush situations like these with the utmost discretion. They took to the veins of the slums in the hopes of commencing their battue and impressing their leaders, but could only find the discarded remains in the city gutters, comprising equally of dead bodies and pregnant women pushed out onto the street with no use for anyone. In a matter of weeks they had turned the entire city upside down but could not find the syndicate responsible for hiding the migrants. They interrogated the big players: the owners of strip joints and brothels, the politicians, the hustlers playing long cons, the gamblers, the criminals, the gangsters, and eventually even the mafia, remaining last on the list of suspects only because they appeared to be too occupied with their territoriality wars to be concerned about slave labour. And of course, at that time, the truth regarding Don Corneo's voracious sexual appetite was still rather ambiguous, subject to mere hearsay and slander.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on one's perspective, after word of Shinra's extermination had trickled down to the slums, the illegal practice died down and the hunt was eventually put on hold. It was almost frustrating to think that had they interrogated the Don a little further they could have slaughtered him without a moment's hesitation and regained control of the slums. The resultant massacre of thousands of innocent women would be an eventuality, but given the choice, Reno was sure they would rather opt for a quick death over a lifetime of misery.

Habituating to the visual intrusion, he glanced over at the silhouettes by the open doorway. There appeared to be a least seven of them, all huffing and heaving as they lugged a solid block of dead weight by their waists, dropping it ten feet away from Reno. Was it supposed to be the sign of his impending future? They spat and kicked the body for a while before straightening their lapels and leaving without even acknowledging the Turk, resealing his tomb and restoring the enveloping darkness.

Reno dared not to make a sound, feeling the gruesome aura radiating off the dead body as it constricted his chest and shrank the room to the size of his pocket. Although he had not seen through the shadows, his mind had given the deceased person a face, a gender, even a personality. He did everything he had been trained never to do as a Turk by humanising the dead. As far as his superiors were concerned they were inanimate pieces of meat that could no longer feel, speak, think or breathe, and therefore did not need to be seen as a person, nor an entity that lived on in the afterlife, and should be detached from trivial human emotions like empathy or guilt.

But this body – this _person_ in Reno's mind was still suffering. The man, deduced as a male by the size of his shaded body, could not breathe, nor could he think or speak or perform any other expression of existence. Yet he still suffered. In the absolute silence of the chamber, he could hear the white noise of his soul escaping his body, transubstantiating for a new life in the stream of spirits. His eyes, although closed and motionless, still produced tears. Ignoring the physical distress of death, he simply lamented the things he had never done, the people he had never spoken to, the life he hadn't lived.

Sliding back in his chair, Reno used the rope burns on his wrist as a means to expel the disturbing revelations from his mind, and then his developing craving for a cigarette to prevent it from returning. For the remaining ten minutes, he closed his eyes and imagined the wonderful taste of tobacco rolling along his tongue. It would only be a matter of hours before his gentle hunger for a few pulls would turn into agonising force within that would make him writhe as though subjecting him to electrocution.

Before the fear of entering such a debilitating state could grip him, the door opened again. Light splashed over the familiar segment of darkness that once hid the shackles and forgotten victims of the past, illuminating the path for an oddly shaped silhouette. One discernable pair of legs shuffled erratically nearby before placing another person on the ground. His new cellmate was far more animated than the previous one; the silhouette shivered and fidgeted nonstop. The new tormentor treated the new person with more respect and dignity than that given to the dead body, almost as if the Don's men operated just as he did. It was a sickening assumption, but who would blame him? The Turks and the mafia alike were a group of murderers, working to satisfy their egos and their wallets. Both parties had objectives and jobs, and both could not let emotions rule their actions. Although the Don's men had taken things a step further by seeking pleasure in the suffering and humiliation of others, Reno could not say he was any better.

In fact he was worse.

He wanted his own friend – his _best_ friend – to suffer by giving Jake to Corneo. Through jealousy and egocentricity, he would have enjoyed Rude's pain if it only meant he could have Tifa all to himself. And he knew back then that he did not _really _want her, and would discard her after he grew bored with her. Yet he still could not repress the green-eyed monster that had consumed him.

The thought hushed the incessant garble of retributive prayers. Alas, there was no hope for him now.

_Stay still. Stay silent._

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 10:52am – Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

Holding a handkerchief to his nose, Tseng waded through the ankle-high cesspool of black blood and dirty water congealing in dust and debris. Originating from bust utility pipes and severed arteries, the mixture oozed in rivulets from the mountain of limbs and burnt organs, battling the tangible stench of fire and death.

The further he traversed the carpet of flesh the more graphically gruesome the slew of corpses became; many of them lost in the nucleus of his explosion. Upon reaching the end of the corridor, and after stopping the pendulous movement of a broken light fixture, he knelt down to place two fingers against the soot-plastered neck of a listless woman. Having never killed more than seven women in seventeen years of employment under President Shinra, he found it almost unnerving to lose the reliance that a kick to a crotch could offer. But seeing as though she had no external organ to kick, and that her body deserved a little more dignity than his usual victims, he continued to feel for the pulse by her throat, stopping as she coughed and spluttered into consciousness.

He smoothed back the frayed strands of hair from her eyes as they fluttered open, both receiving blurry, kinetic images of a scarlet tilaka and jet irides that refused to resolve into one.

Straining to focus on her saviour, Tifa consumed all of her strength to sit up without falling back. She grabbed the lapesls of his jacket to pull herself closer.

"You... missed me," she managed to articulate through a long exhale. "It'll take more than that to kill me, you Shinra scumbag."

"I wasn't trying to kill you," he responded calmly, avoiding eye contact behind the subtle excuse of examining her injuries.

"So, what then? You saved my life?" she uttered, unsure whether her words had constructed a statement of faith in his internal good nature or a question of sheer disbelief.

"Not entirely," he said, holding her forearms to protect his favourite suit, still favouring her bruises over her countenance. "I'll reiterate that your wellbeing is no concern of mine. I wasn't exactly aiming for you but I would have taken it a lot easier if you had died in the blast." His demeanour, redolent of composure, allowed him to ignore the sparks of failing electrical appliances in the quotidian scene of brutal fatality. Checking the contusions on her legs, he applied gentle pressure to them to gauge her reaction. "Do you think you could get up and walk?"

"I don't know," she replied, leaning heavily on him as she took to wobbly feet, only to groan in agony and release him from her tight grasp. "I think I've sprained my ankle pretty bad. It really hurts."

After examining her foot further, he shook his head. "A ligament problem would show some form of inflammation. This looks like it could be a broken bone."

"That doesn't help," she whimpered, trying not to disturb her leg as she shuffled off jagged fragments of rock. "So what am I going to do?"

"Well, you can't just sit and wait here. I'm sure someone heard the blast and is coming down to inspect this place."

"And there I was thinking you would have taken it easier if I died."

"Yes. In the blast: a quick and relatively efficient death," he responded, wiping the trickle of blood from her lip with his handkerchief. "But I can't just leave you here knowing that I've injured you in this house of perversion just to die a slow, humiliating death by the hands of some depraved libertine."

"Such sentiment," she scoffed.

He glanced over his shoulder to ensure they were alone, and to ignore her somewhat cocky grin, before scooping her off the ground, paying close attention not to exacerbate her injury. Cradling her in his arms, he trudged through the ruins into the darkness of empty hallways, giving her the option to chew on his tie if the pain became too unbearable. Choosing his phraseology carefully, he made the gesture appear as though it had stemmed through kindness, helping her take her mind off the agony. In reality, he just wanted to stuff the tie in her mouth to prevent her from making too much noise, fearing the smell of charred flesh and regrettable memories would render the outfit unfit to be worn again.

After perambulating the maze of hallways for what felt like an hour, avoiding much attention after blowing the majority of the Don's button men to smithereens, they found themselves facing two dead ends: the physical wall of mangled limbs and rubble they had left behind and the aural wall of the auxiliary gunmen's footsteps or muffled commands emerging from all exits. He soon retraced his steps to the centre of both extremes, unsure of what to do. Disregarding Tifa's pleas to leave her and find Jake alone, he stopped by the only door that did not emit light through the doorframe, the only room within proximity that appeared to be blessed with the gifts of darkness, isolation and copious space. It was far larger than any of the others, situated directly in the heart of the underground lair, the furthest inward point from each and every exit.

It was a perfect hideout for an escapee.

After fiddling with the security box grafted to the wall, he uncased it, split two of the thousands of wires that flopped out with a pocket knife, and allowed the bare metal within the wires to meet, deactivating the lock with a few tiny sparks.

"Oh, God," she whimpered, holding her nose as they hit a stench of death and decay with all the force of a wrecking ball pounding their olfactory senses.

"You think being a barmaid in the slums is tough. I get to say that, thanks to my job, I've smelt worse," he whispered.

Daring not to wander too far into the umbra encapsulated in a membrane impervious to space and time itself, he placed her gently on the ground and whispered two commands into her ears: _stay still, stay silent_. They were the last words of wisdom he imparted before disappearing in search of another victim to rescue, his heroic actions distorted by their shady sources of motivation.

Alone at last, she felt free to shudder in fear, trapped in this womb of isolation. The darkness, as always, was comforting to a certain extent before its veiling nature began to constrict her. Of course, acting brave was easy in front of others, especially those that expected very little from her. They provided a medium to reflect and project her own courage upon herself, fuelling the feistiness that fought for freedom, pushing against the seams of her soul. But here, trapped in nothingness, she was permitted to cry, to vent her fears and her frustration. There was nobody besides God himself to witness the overdue tears leaving warm tracks and a saline taste as they rolled down her cheeks to her lips.

Tilting her head back, she wondered if praying would provide any use. After years of neglecting God and his words inscribed in both testaments, she could only wonder if this was a test of her faith. Perhaps He wished to observe her faith in Him to protect her and bolster her throughout this virtuous task. She had become the martyr, chasing after Jake's life as it teetered on the brink of existence, ignoring her own that lay unguarded in the sweltering heat under a flock of circling vultures. Would He welcome her courage with open arms and wash her previous sins with tears of fear? Or would she fail this task and bring her life to a premature end without even a hint of a reward from the Lord that had already foreordained her fate, reserving her position in the fiery crypts of Hell?

Alone.

Again.

She would be left to rot in this sealed sepulchre forevermore, replaying the infinite memories of loved ones lost: her parents, torn from her by the cold fingers of death; her friends, engulfed in flames and smoke. And now even God had left her in search of a more doting child, freed from the faith that once glued Him to her soul. If she didn't need Him, He did not need her. She was a mere statistic now. A lost cause.

Her last ally was her last enemy, promising to return for her as though throwing her a sword to defend herself and abiding by the clause of honour in their contractual duel. But why should he? Would she come back for him? If only to save herself from eternal damnation, she would lie and say she would without a moment's hesitation. But the sin of lying alone would only destroy the trust of her saviour further, forcing Him to macerate the ground with her tears until she sank down to her rightful place.

And so, she swallowed down the painful truth and the slab of disgust: if God would not return to her, why would Tseng?

Fumbling through her pockets, she routed for her phone, moaning all the while as her foot began its delayed throbbing. Missing the irony in praying for her phone to be operational and to receive reception in this shaded purgatory, she kissed it in joy at the sight of a slightly cracked screen that illuminated her cheeks with a welcome message and three reception bars.

Rifling through her contacts, she had to talk to the one man that had not walked away from her on negative terms and could offer the slightest chance of gaining absolution; the very same man that had split her opinion of her friends and pushed her into the seductive arms of two innocent men that unfortunately entangled their lives with her knotted affairs. But upon reaching Barret's number she froze and thought about his pending response to her plea for help. In any other circumstance, she could imagine him barging through this veritable whorehouse with guns blazing and a sly grin nestled within his beard. But now, as he began to mention an increasing number of times, he was a father before a fighter. If the end result of combat was positive with respect to Marlene, he would not hesitate to strap on his chains of ammunition. Blowing the reactors was a prime example of this: a dangerous endeavour that would inherently protect his daughter's future. But, just like Tseng, why should he come to her salvation, risking the loss of a little girl's father to extinguish a weak mafia family and prolong a friend's miserable life? She knew he still would do anything to help her, but would have to push past the guilt of asking him to do so.

The thought was disturbingly funny. When people discouraged her or talked down to her because she was a mere barmaid, she found inner strength that otherwise lay dormant within her. It was almost as though she brewed courage and could tap it out whenever she required it. In the face of her own mortality, however, she could see the truth of the matter. Her _courage _was nothing more than misguided anger. It was the overspill of an emotional broth that was bitter and malodorous. Her courage had not pushed her into this mansion in search of Jake. It was simply her frustration, venting itself through a form of masochism. She wanted to get injured, to get lost and frightened in the city of sin just to feel something – anything. The numbness of losing the love that did not even exist between herself and Reno had grown tiresome. It, like her courage, was a lie. The gelid persona she donned in Rude's presence had also fatigued her mind: another lie. And her claim of disregarding the indelible memory of her night at the well with Cloud was the largest lie of all.

In pressing the call button, she realised who the real Tifa Lockhart was after years of believing herself to be such an enigma.

She was a goddamned coward.

"Barret?" she whispered, fighting back more tears upon hearing his familiar voice. "Barret is that you...?"

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 11:00am – Upper Plate_**

The clunking of boots and the visual obtrusion of Shinra colours did little to steal the displaced First Class SOLDIER from his reverie. Finding the island in his own head a safe retreat from the grinding pain emanating from his stomach, he had spent the past twenty minutes drooling in the corner, eyes turned upwards, body shivering as though it had become the subject of an epileptic fit. The vagrants besides him had shaken his shoulder to return him to their gloomy world, fearing the worst. But after a few shakes here and few prods there they had given up and returned to their normal positions, the pavement now cold from their absence, safe in the knowledge that he was a goner. After all, they had no medicine, nor any expertise to treat his condition, and were far too weak themselves to carry him to the hospital. It had simply come to turning their necks to the vista of shallow-pocketed businessmen that ignored them as they would now ignore him.

His soul, now riven from the seams of reality, seeped through holes punched into his body by clumps of mako crystallising in his liver, kidneys and spleen, attaching to his blood to hitch a free ride to his brain. It triggered the myoclonic jerks, the respiratory depression, and the hallucinations. The poisonous chemicals in his body had staged a coup and gained control over his body and his mind. It barricaded the signals from his eyes and immersed him in a world of his past; selecting memories to keep him occupied as it dissolved his mind. It also sealed his ears and nose to any sensation, drowning out the babel of passing pedestrians and the stench of diesel. The mako coursing through his veins had transformed his body into a prison, disguised as a sanctum, locking him in and throwing away the key.

Internally bathed in the flashing lights of a three-dimensional projection and the welcoming sounds of a rotating movie reel, he gazed at the fresh snow by his doorstep, leaving his mother as she prepared dinner, generating warmth in the form of steam that carried the intoxicating aromas of her cuisine all around the house. The white powder crunched under his wellingtons as he raced for the centre of the village. His footprints grew in size with every step, as did his body and his mind. He matured by the metre, transforming into more of an adult the further he strayed from home. He was always free to act the child there, to be molly coddled and loved unconditionally, receiving nutriment and lodging free of charge with the promise that he would reciprocate the sentiment when his mother reached an inevitable state of caducity.

Indeed, as he left his house he did grow, but only into a man that proved every promise he had made held no real validity. His bones lengthened only to support increasing amounts of fat; his skull expanded only to house an unripe mind incapable of imbibing knowledge; his hands grew only to live in his pockets and deflect any actions of manual labour that would provide the nutriment and lodging he had promised his mother.

Slowly but surely, the mental imagery, too lucid and tangible to called a mere dream, became a nightmare, sullying the fresh snow with bloody rain and the clean air with bitter smoke. His new overlord stimulated a release of adrenaline as though setting fire to his paralysed body. His muscles writhed in pain without conscious effort, working below his natural limen. His head butted against the glass of the bus shelter, driven by the mako that wished to create another hole for remnants of his soul to permeate, matting blonde tresses in blood. The escaping soul, responding to the impending psychomachy, was grabbed at its hem by the ex-SOLDIER's scream that scratched and scraped against his throat as it left the warmth of his body and ventured out into the cold morning air, attracting the attention of the pedestrians that could no longer ignore him. A few of them routed through their bags or their pockets to find their phones, calling the authorities through a desire, a _necessity_, to do something about him, to remove him from their microcosm so they would no longer feel guilty about something they could no longer see.

As punctual as any service could be, a few members of Shinra's militia had been deployed, now eyeing the sorry group of vagabonds cowering beneath them. They did not rely on violence to move the group into their van, instead utilising a calm and polite demeanour that was utterly unsettling and therefore able to generate absolute compliance. The writhing madman remained in position, however, locked in place through a lack of comprehension.

"What's with him?" one of the guards asked after gently prodding the rest of the group into the back of the van, tightly clutching his rifle as he referred to the disquieting actions of the madman.

"Probably overdosing on mako," the other responded, his eyes relenting to leave those of the man by his feet. "I can remember a time when this problem was rare, y'know, when you'd be hard pressed to get your hands on the stuff. Now there are maniacs injecting themselves with melted materia stones just to get a quick buzz."

"That's fucking sick."

"Right you are," he replied, kneeling down, judging how the madman responded to proximity. Witnessing no response whatsoever, he nodded and stood up. "Get the restraints."

"The straight jacket?"

"Nah, we'll never be able to get that on him. Just get the ropes," he said, rolling his neck down to bring his lips closer to the radio communicator strapped to his shoulder. "Juliet Three, this is Foxtrot. We've picked up the package and are ready for delivery..."

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 11:04am – Barret's Apartment, Sector Seven_**

The leather sofa hissed as he dropped down upon it, resting his drained body in preparation for another long day. Once in a relatively relaxed state, he examined his remaining hand, front and back, staring at the calluses and bruises that reminded him he was more human than machine. Through unemployment, however, the blemishes on his hand were beginning to fade along with oil stains and the memories of an honest life.

He had been a miner his entire life, cracking rocks with pickaxes in the dark bowels of the coal pits and lugging great slabs of the black gold over his shoulders through the stifling heat of summer or the bone-chilling frigidity of winter alongside his fellow townspeople. His seat on Corel's council offered no privileges in his mind: he was born in the coal pits and he would readily die there. He couldn't bear to fathom a life of pushing papers, strangled in a tie, seated by a desk all day. It just wasn't in his nature. No, he could only find pleasure through physical stress, not in a form of masochism, just in a manner of testing himself, pushing his limits, and becoming the best he could be. Although his job back in Corel had been demanding, he was free to behave jocularly with his colleagues, jesting and joshing without being restricted by the rules of political correctness that existed in the modern office environment. As far as Barret was concerned, if a man could not take a joke, he was not fit for his friendship.

His life had once equated to his work, both on the council promoting his hometown's status and in the mines promoting his hometown's economy, and to his pregnant wife and their unborn child. Although he expressed his love of working in the mines alongside his friends and family on many occasions, he could not help but notice the expanding popularity of mako energy all across the globe. Every town worth knowing about had a reactor and ever-growing amenities sourced from President Shinra's very deep pockets. Reading and studying the company's new development, he could only place his own pleasures behind the prospect of bringing prosperity to his townspeople and, more importantly, securing the future of his forthcoming baby boy and all the other children in his community. Such reactors would be driven by computers and machines, in turn driven by men of great scientific knowledge, meaning he would have to drop his pickaxe and pick up an awful tie for good; but for the sake of his growing family, he would do anything.

Reclining further on his chair, he glanced over to the picture of his parents, framed in wood, sealed behind the glass door of a cabinet. They looked happy together, draped in plain clothing – honest clothing – and displaying the smiles one can only achieve through personal enlightenment, or through a lack of any exposure to the evils lurking around the world. In their times, innocence seemed to still thrive, protecting the town in its comforting grasp. Vice, sin, immorality: they were just words in the dictionary. The people had to struggle to survive, they had to work all day and all night, leaving no time to indulge their base desires or damage their bodies with alcohol and drugs. In an ironic way, life was easier back then. With the advent of machinery – drills, wheelbarrows, and trucks – the workload, although still demanding, offered a little time to rest and a little time to think. In Barret's case, however, this thinking time could only mark the destruction of his town and the slaughter of his townspeople.

He could remember the final words of his father as he lay in a hospital bed, his skin melted and covered in ghastly burns after an accidental house-fire. The old man told Barret, his then fourteen-year-old son, not to worry about his mother that had passed in the flames, for he would meet her up in heaven in a matter of hours and look after her there. He also told his boy that although the flames could char his flesh and bones, they could never burn his hopes and dreams. They lived on forever in the minds of the people he loved. Barret took these words and inscribed them in his heart, holding it dear to him forever, treating it as gospel truth.

Alas, the gospel truth was a regrettable invention of a dying man. The conflagration that would later engulf his entire hometown, set alight by the hands of Shinra's men, seared the flesh and bones of his wife and his unborn child, burning the children, the miners, the councilmen, taking the life of everyone without prejudice. It scorched the buildings and razed them, transforming his home, once a halcyon image of honesty, into a wasteland of smouldering rubble and deceit. But most of all, the fire destroyed his hopes and dreams of a happy, comfortable life with his wife and son, his family. The fire destroyed his trust in mankind. It destroyed his jocular attitude, leaving only a gruff and bitter replacement. It destroyed his memories, once filling him with exuberance, now tugging at his heartstrings. The flames managed to destroy every intangible aspect of human life that his father professed to be non-flammable in a heartbeat, the smallest unit of human chronological measurement.

Broken from his reverie, he leapt off his seat at the sound of the telephone. He picked it up and answered before reading the screen, wishing to hear the sound of a voice just to steal his thoughts from the painful past.

"Hello."

"_Barret? Barret is that you_?"

"Tifa? Yeah, it's me. What's the matter?" he asked, his brows furrowing at the sound of her distress. Of course he knew what the matter was. He had pushed and locked her out of her own house, dropped her shoes by her feet and marched her into the heart of the fire just to obtain a few Shinra secrets.

Had the flames really destroyed his selfless character; the single characteristic that everybody had once defined him by, the quality his wife, Myrna, confessed to have fallen in love with? The flames surely had burnt his bond with the human race, but how could they penetrate his very self? He had become the outcast by his own volition, fleeing the scornful looks of survivors that had begun the complicated procedure of rebuilding their simple lives, escaping the baking heat of the desert sun under the shade of trees and the flimsy tents they called home. He knew they hated him, a hatred that reflected off his surface onto others, a hatred that had become hotter than the destructive fire, morphing and melting his character down to an ugly mess.

"_I'm scared, Barret_," she sniffed._ "I think I'm gonna die_."

"Whoa, whoa... calm down, everything's gonna be OK."

_Everything's gonna be OK. _He could remember spitting out the same phrase to douse the scorching anger of his fellow councilmen after he had announced organising a meeting with Shinra officials to hear a speech on the benefits of converting to mako energy. The look they gave him carved straight through him; a look of betrayal. They had once believed him to be the very face of Corel, their spokesman that held and promoted the ideals of their forefathers. They could see his pure intentions, but could simply not understand why he would want to throw away their culture and heritage so easily. His dream to bring more money to the town should have invigorated them. They could build bigger and better schools for their children, hospitals, factories, industry, and technology. It was all at their very fingertips. But, even after hearing his twenty minute speech for their town's potential, they were still unconvinced, citing fables of the destructive and evil powers of money; the very same stories his parents used to tell him as he sat by their rocking chairs on the porch, drinking homemade lemonade.

He was selfless, of course, paving the way for the development of his town even though he knew he would become a public enemy, a martyr almost. But he was also arrogant; unrelenting in his plot to bring money to his town. And that arrogance, it seemed, was impervious to the most scorching flames of hell, existing now in his unrelenting battle to gain petty revenge. That is how his homefolk would see him when they saw his face plastered over the news. They would draw closer to their battered television sets to glance through the dust and see a man, their fellow spokesman, murdering thousands of innocent people, simply because he could not overcome his pride.

"_I did what you asked me to, Barret. I got information about Shinra through Rude._"

"That don't matter right now, Tifa. Just tell me where you..."

"_They're planning something big. I... I don't know the major details; Rude said something about acid stored under the plate that'll rain down onto the slums, or setting beasts free in our hospitals and schools or... or... damn, I can't remember the rest. Look, the important information is they're going to kill thousands, if not millions, of innocent people _just_ to give us a little negative publicity. I've been thinking about it, and... I know our actions can't be justified, but at least our intentions are pure. If we intend to destroy the reactors we have to do it before their plans are set in motion, otherwise the negative implications of bombing reactors will strengthen the public's hate for us and we'll be murdered by vigilantes before we get our shot at justice_."

"Wait," he uttered, winded by her use of the words 'we' and 'our'. She had joined his wave of thought, ignoring every impulse of her conscious, every impulse of her soul, thinking beyond reason. Had her time with the Turk really opened her mind to the bigger picture, dampening the voice in her head by keeping the company of an evil man? Or was she simply spurting out words in a confused mess? She thought she was going to die; what use would her conscious offer her in such a state?

Returning to the conversation after a few seconds of bafflement, he continued, "You actually tellin' me you're on board with this?"

"_One hundred percent."_

"And the stuff the Turk told you...?"

"_It was true. I'm sure of it. I... I think he's fallen in love with me. When he revealed his secrets... h-he did so in confidence. I was so confused when he told me, and I didn't know what to do with the information... but I... I..."_

"It's OK, Tifa. Jus' sit tight and tell me where you are. I'll be there as fast as I can."

"_I'm... I'm in_ _Don Corneo's Mansion. I'm in the basement somewhere. I don't know where exactly, but it's dark and I can't move my leg and..."_

"Tifa, you gotta keep it together now, y'hear me? I'll be there right away. You jus' keep that Turk talkin'..."

"_Rude's dead, Barret_. _I... I-I killed him... I killed him..."_

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 11:06am – Room 101, Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

She immediately snapped the phone shut at the sound of a laboured groan and heavy breathing. Frightened stiff, she shuffled back until she could feel the wall against her back, huddling against her good leg for warmth, trying to block out the fear of the unknown. As a warrior, she had trained her mind not to distort the shadows of darkness into the subjects of her fears and phobias, allowing darkness to embrace her and become her ally. Of course, it was always easier said than done. In the comfort of her own bar, where she knew every exit, every hazard, every specific detail of the building, she could blend with the darkness, become one with it. But here, in this foreign world of nothingness, suffering a severe handicap, she no longer had the advantage.

It was time to put her skills to new use.

She sniffed heavily again, swallowing back a potent mixture of phlegm and tears, still unsure why she had lied like that to Barret. Trapped in this tomb, perhaps she was just expressing her true emotion now that Death's bony fingers had peeled away the mask she had been hiding behind ever since the Great Fire. Her need to preserve life stemmed from the life stolen from her. Human beings do not simply exist within themselves; they are the amalgam of their genetic makeup, their environment and the people they love. Ever since every last person she loved had perished, she felt disconnected from that important piece of her very existence. She had put on a brave face and tried to ensure such a feeling never found its way into the soul of another being, whether they were good or bad, rich or poor, it didn't matter. Nobody deserved to be subjected to that feeling of isolation.

But even in such isolation, she still had a special form of kinship with Barret, the only soul that had experienced the same fate. Although he mocked and belittled the others, he spoke to Tifa with dignity and respect, almost as though their mutual friendship could fill the punctures in their souls. It did in some respects, but their differences always separated them, steering them in antagonistic directions.

One of them was at fault. One of them was wrong. But which one?

Sensing her time was nearing a close, she decided the hand of fate, or God, or any divine principle that ruled the universe, was sending her a signal; it was trying to cancel her out of the equation for the good of humanity. It drove her into the arms of Rude, a dangerous man on the wrong side of justice. It drove her to thoughts of infidelity, scaring off the one man that could heal her internal wounds and make her complete again. It drove her to the bottle, to the substance that had nearly killed her once before. And it drove her to lie, to confess to a murder to strengthen the conviction of a preacher that had successfully converted her.

The real lie, of course, was not her murder of Rude. Deep down, she felt responsible for his destiny. She had distracted him with illusory prospects of friendship and possibly something more. She had melted the cold barrier that kept him distant from human life, inevitably melting the very substance that made him a Turk, leading to his capture and inevitable death. No, the real falsehood, the real shameful lie, involved her commitment to Barret's plans. She was still strictly against his terror plot, but would say and do anything to surface from this downward spiral.

Yes, the mask was off, and Tifa would never dare look at the ugly truth that now lay bare. She was despicable; no better than Rude or Tseng or the perverted bastards that governed the shaded City of Vice. She was one of them, circling with the other scavengers, one of the flock in this world filled with vultures.

"Tifa?"

She recoiled at the sound of her name, whispered through the darkness as though emanating from Death's lips himself.

"Tifa, is that you...?"

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 11:04am – Room 101, Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

The acerbic stench of blood hit him first, carried through stagnant air on the back of wafts of feminine fragrance. It was a familiar smell, minus the blood, transporting him through his own head to memories with Tifa. The blank canvas above him began to speckle with starlight, followed by a wan, iridescent moon that rippled like a watery reflection. Verdant life in the form of tall grass, shrubs and evergreen trees sprouted around the entirety of the dark room, daring only to leave strips of bare, dusty land for roads and walkways; the panorama immersed in a purple, nocturnal hue. The night was peculiarly sultry, given that it was late autumn. Or maybe he just felt hot under the collar in her presence?

His chair, constructed of Nibelheimian timber, felt cold and smooth against his back, angled away like the windshield of his car. He sat there, under the stars with the blinking lights of Kalm below the hilltops and a beautiful woman by his side. He inhaled her perfume; a wonderful fragrance of coconut butter, so strong that her creamy skin could have been composed of the most exotic copra. In his mind's eye, he had entered paradise. Nirvana. Heaven. Her angelic form had been waiting for him, ready to submit, ready to dominate, ready to complete him.

The blood must have been his, emitting a bitter, repugnant smell that spoilt his ascent to heaven. The further time lapsed the more vibrant the scene of tranquillity became, pulling him up through the ropes that bound him. But the smell of blood, that awful stench, also grew stronger and more pungent, overpowering the heavenly coconut-fragrance and dragging him back to the pit of darkness and isolation. He could see the world his mind had painted slowly shrinking and swirling away as though the moon had become a plughole in the sky. The periphery blackened and grew slowly towards the centre of his vision, until the entire image vanished instantly at the sound of a woman's weep.

He opened his eyes and rotated to the sound of his new cellmate, still unable to see her. Perhaps he had confused her fragrance for the ethereal scent from his past that had carried him to heaven. Perhaps the blood was hers, too.

The sobs began to grow in volume, as did the sniffs and snorts of thick phlegm. Whoever was there surely knew of her fate; possibly a maid that had stepped out of line and had been locked in this dungeon with the rotting remains of her previous generation. Or maybe the woman was weeping in penance, lamenting woes of her past, as Reno had been doing.

She was not a dead body, but a spectre, haunting and chilling him to the bone. And as he had done with his first cellmate, he humanised this spirit, giving her a bright, bubbly personality that shone through a beautiful smile. Her frame was slender and petit, yet seductively full around the chest. Her eyes were wide and bright, contrasted by jet mascara. Her hair was a waterfall of chestnut silk that played with the breeze; a meadow of dark strands scented by flowery shampoo.

Her name was Tifa.

_Either I have no imagination whatsoever, or I cannot get that woman out of my head_...

His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle neon glow. Taking a moment to focus his eyes on the object, he realised the light was coming from a cell phone, highlighting a small island of the woman's thigh in a blue tinge. After she had scrolled through various numbers, she slowly brought the phone to her ear, briefly highlighting a slender, petit frame and an ample chest bordered by long strands of dark hair.

_Now I'm just dreaming_...

"Barret? Barret is that you?" she whimpered.

Alas, he had not been dreaming, and the sound of her voice completed the picture, revivifying the wonderfully tranquil image of Kalm's hilltop view around him, the night sky buzzing with activity: shooting stars, northern lights, asteroids burning through the atmosphere, fireworks that spelled out her name like flashes of lightning, each letter as vivid as the sun.

**T**

**I**

**F**

**A**

"I'm scared, Barret. I think I'm gonna die."

Although the illusions had been potent enough to immerse him in three dimensions of crystal clear imagery, they were never accompanied by sounds, allowing him to distinguish reality from the external projections in his head. The fireworks were bright and dazzling but were deathly silent, the guns fired bullets of air, and the lips of writhing lovers moved without passing a single whisper. So, this voice, _Tifa's_ voice, could either mean he was crawling further and further down the rabbit hole of his mind, into chambers of insanity that owned no exits, or it could mean she, _Tifa_, was actually there in the room with him. He had not gone completely insane, aware that she could be nothing more than a figment of his imagination, and so he simply used her, or rather he used her image, as a battery for his willpower. He could sense a growing strength, a growing desire to escape and find that future with her.

"I did what you asked me to, Barret. I got information about Shinra through Rude."

And, as easily as it had appeared, the strength and courage perished, destroyed by words that let his heart plummet through his chest as though it no longer defied gravity. He could only deduce that his subconscious was still dancing the tango with his latent paranoia. His previous issues related to a growing relationship between her and Rude, but he hadn't even thought she could simply be playing him, both of them, like this, almost as though she was working a double bluff.

No. This bore all the hallmarks of his long drive home from Kalm, that long period of reflection from the hilltops of the town within which his mind had currently immersed him. Given enough time in his own head, he had utilised the suspicion centres of his mind, those malleable spots bent into shape by Turk trainers in boot camp, to question every niggling detail of every single person, always favouring those that promoted his own longevity and, unfortunately, those that promoted mistrust in everyone but himself.

But if he remained ignorant of his warning, he would have lost trust in everyone _and_ himself.

_Who cares if I don't trust myself? I'm a mortal, too. I'm just as self-centred, just as vindictive, just as human as anybody else. _

_It makes sense, doesn't it? After all, you already promised yourself you'd put your trust in nobody but God. Maybe that's all this means. Maybe her voice, her words; they're just the words of God, just the words that will help me let her go and free me from the prison of my own body._

"They're planning something big. I... I don't know the major details; Rude said something about acid stored under the plate that'll rain down onto the slums, or setting beasts free in our hospitals and schools or... or... damn, I can't remember the rest..."

He allowed a brief, disconcerted smile to touch his lips, adding his fears of inadequacy into the fuel of this hallucination. The Acid and Beast plots were the two decoys he had generated himself after his election and inauguration as the Operative. He was a prime candidate in the eyes of Heidegger and Tseng alike; a perfect soldier, disentangling human emotion from a human job. They had chosen him before they had even closed twelve blocks of traffic to install several hundred pounds of TNT into the upper plate's core, before they had even decided how to crush the rebels like the insects they were, before they had even heard of AVALANCHE itself. But was he ready to face such a task? There was no pride in his job, as much as he cared to let on, and so his selection as the prime candidate could only be construed as an insult rather than a compliment. After all, they had selected him without a moment's hesitation as the most inhuman man in their organisation.

_You've got two choices Reno. You can either believe this is all in your head and die here as a man in love, experiencing a least a tiny sliver of real human emotion before you expire. Or you can give into your suspicion as you always do. You can crumble under the pressure, under the weight of this artificial paranoia that was designed to keep you alive._

_Designed to keep me alive? Yeah, it's done a fat load of good for me recently. _

_Alright Reno, just tune it out. Just tune it out..._

"It was true. I'm sure of it. I... I think he's fallen in love with me. When he revealed his secrets... h-he did so in confidence. I was so confused when he told me, and I didn't know what to do with the information... but I... I..."

His smile grew as though he could truly profess that he was resurfacing from insanity. After all, his fear of Rude's vulnerability in Tifa's company, a vulnerability that would inevitably lead to his betrayal of the company by exposing classified information, was hardly sealed in his subconscious. It was a fear he had expressed to Tseng on numerous occasions, possibly even a source of his anxiety over their developing relationship.

"I'm... I'm in Don Corneo's Mansion. I'm in the basement somewhere. I don't know where exactly, but it's dark and I can't move my leg and..."

Figuring he had had enough, he decided to forcibly pass out, shutting down his conscious centre to prevent the irritating relay of information from his subconscious. He tightened the muscles in his neck and clenched his jaw, literally trying to grapple his mind into submission by starving it of oxygen via a prolonged Valsalva manoeuvre. Suffering in silence, the pain drift up from his stomach to his head, and his complexion transformed from a pale cream to bright red. Owing to his experiences as an aviator, he was used to passing out under the pressure of G-forces, enabling him to recognise the stages he would go through before the dark monotony around him would be a result of unconsciousness as opposed to unfortunate decor.

The dizziness enslaved his body, leading him to sway like an entranced cobra. He pushed past the worst of the pain before it slowly began to dissolve, aware that his mind, his wit, his intellect, whatever you wished to call it, was sharper than his will. It would find a way to seduce him back to consciousness, bribing him with pleasurable thoughts or threatening him with terrifying ones. Being a Turk, he lived a life of luxury, a life that could render him impervious to bribes. Again, as a Turk, he could deflect threats with the utmost of ease, partly because those that valued their lives never spoke ill of the infamous Blue Suits, but mainly because it is impossible to threaten a man that holds nothing dear to his heart.

So, he would have to work extra hard to ignore those enticing – or malicious – words.

"Rude's dead, Barret. I... I-I killed him... I killed him..."

Alas, his mind defeated him, punching him in the gut to release the trapped air in a violent eruption. He wheezed for a few moments, trying to piece together the puzzle pieces dotted about the floor of his mind. Surely, no matter how far he dove into his subconscious, he was never fearful of that. The others were bound to explanations, but this one line of speech left him utterly perplexed, for she had no motive to kill Rude, nor had she behaved in a way to subliminally alter Reno's perception of her in such a way.

The connotation of his reaction was even more perplexing, as it implied that not only did Reno hold someone dear to his heart; but that the person in question was Rude. In the winding weeks, burdened by the disturbing prospect of detonating a segment of the plate and murdering millions of innocent people, he realised his friendship with Rude was the one form of human emotion that marred his reputation as the company's most inhuman man. Love was a buzzword that had lost all meaning in a world of easy divorces and misguided lust. The idea of such a trivial feeling could be drilled out of his mind in a matter of minutes and did not require months of intensive training. But friendship was a matter left untouched. After all, the Turk trainers could not promote teamwork without promoting camaraderie. Perhaps they, like he, had forgotten that this was an emotion that did not simply promote the self.

What would he do to maintain his friendship? Would he put his own life in danger?

Tugging at the ropes that bound his arms, he could not help but feel that his very presence in this room had already answered those questions.

And so, lost in a sea of confusion, defeated by his fiendish mind, he called out her name just to prove she was not there, that his sanity still remained intact.

"Tifa?" Still breathless, his voice was a mere whisper, a ghostly noise slicing through the silence. "Tifa is that you?"

She recoiled at the sound of her name, whispered through the darkness as though emanating from Death's lips himself.

He expected no respite in any situation; her presence would confirm his best friend's death and her absence would prove his weakness of mind. He just needed to know. He just needed one moment of honesty before his life of secrecy and debauchery came to its end.

He grimaced as a reply struck his ears.

"Who's there?" she asked, insulating her words with false bravery. "How do you know my name?"

Still unrelenting to believe she was there, he shook away the heartache in need of more proof. He needed to bring her closer to prove her heavenly fragrance would not strengthen with proximity. Insistent on beating his paranoia, he would not be satisfied until her scent cloyed at his throat, until he could taste it and feel it running down his tongue. He wanted to feel the warmth radiating off her body, to inhale her muggy breath, to feel her palm caressing his skin. Giving in to the desires of lust, he would let go of the implications of the resulting actions just as long as he could feel her there one last time.

"Tifa, it's me. It's... it's me, Reno," he sighed, aware of how foolish he would appear if the Don caught him talking to himself.

The resulting jubilation of hearing his name quashed all the fear and the inexplicability of his presence in the room. In a heartbeat, as though the lord she had abandoned was not ready to reciprocate her behaviour, she responded. "Reno? Oh, my God. Where are you?"

"Have they tied you up?"

"No, but I've broken my ankle. Where are you?"

"Just follow my voice. I'm right here, Tifa. I'm right here. We're gonna get out of here, just follow my voice."

She did as he said, shuffling on her backside towards his beckoning words with great fervour, carrying her scent with her. He inhaled the amalgam of blood and perfume that grew stronger as the minutes ticked by.

_Please, I want you here... and at the same time I still hope you're just a figment of my imagination._

_God, I'm so fucking confused._

Feeling her way through the darkness, she tentatively fingered the splintered wood of his chair. Lifting her palm higher, she inched forward, ignoring every impulse that blared at her to retreat to safety. Throwing logic out with her fear, she could feel the moisture of his laboured breath collecting on her fingertips and shrieked as he grabbed her hand, roughly tracing it over his face lubricated by tears and sweat.

He could not help but shed a few tears at the tactile sensation he had been dreading. The warmth of her trembling fingers filled him with disgust and revulsion. In a heartbeat she had become the devil's offspring rather than the angel. She had become the monster and he, the victim. She had become everything he hated about humanity – she had become like him.

She read his countenance with her palm, sensing his discontent with ease, and began to tremble further. "R-Reno, what are you doing?"

Bringing her fingers to his lips, he gave them a muted kiss; a kiss goodbye.

"Nothing... I'm just... so happy to be with you. I've been trapped in this darkness for so long that I've begun to hallucinate. I dreamt of you, and all the things we would do when I got out of here. But I also saw a few nightmares, heard and felt things that were... truly awful."

She slowly removed her palm from his grip, realising he must have heard her phone conversation, hoping she could evade any further questioning if she prompted him to believe he had simply been dreaming.

"Right now," he continued, "I don't know what's real and what's just in my head."

"Well I'm real," she replied, fumbling for his hand and resting it against her cheek. "I'm here now and that's all that matters."

"Yes. Yes, you're right. OK, you have to untie me, Tifa. You have to untie me so we can get out of here."

With her phone she used the light to inspect the knot in his restraints, untying him with minimal effort. She felt the breeze of his body leaping off the seat. She left her arm extended in blind faith, utterly relieved as he found it and wrapped her arm over his neck like a scarf, allowing her to lean heavily on him as they fumbled around for the exit.

"The door you came in through was over there," he spoke with complete assurance, soon realising she could not discern where _there_ was in the darkness. "I saw the light from the hallway when you came in here... well, when you were dropped off here. Who was that? Who brought you here?"

She could not tell him about Jake without thinking of Rude, the same Rude she had recalled during their tumultuous embrace in the park. And so, in fear of angering Reno once more, she decided to lie.

Just one more lie, she thought, one more lie to escape this wretched building, this wretched life, before she would sell her bar and reach for the dreams she had ditched on behalf of her friends and their quixotic plans. By his side, she could lean on him instead of the bottle. She could ignore the Tifa Lockhart everyone else assumed her to be. She could throw away that awful mask and become the Tifa Lockhart _she_ wanted to be; no longer the coward, no longer the outcast, no longer the warrior, no longer the barmaid, the nurse, the victim, the drunk, the lovelorn fool waiting for her childhood sweetheart to stride in on his noble steed and carry her off into the sunset.

The proof that such a dream was ridiculous had escaped her lips the first day she ever met Reno: the sun doesn't rise in the slums. Nor does it set.

After spending very little time in the vault, her mind was fresh enough to formulate a quick response, albeit still distracted upon revelling in the success of surviving the poisonous stares of thirty or more rifles and an explosion. Now, leaning against the familiar frame of her ex-boyfriend, she was about to survive succumbing to thirst, starvation, or madness; whichever came knocking first. Taking another glance in his direction, perceptible only through the sound, feel and smell of his heavy breath, she wondered if they truly had split, or whether they were simply overcoming a lover's spat. They hadn't formally told one another things were over, that they would be happy to walk away in opposite directions and see other people. Maybe this still had a chance, as long as she did nothing to ruin it.

"Jessie and I were shopping in downtown Wall Market when the Don's goons started following us. There were at least twenty of them, all licking their lips and hooting and hollering like a pack of horny hyenas." She faced him again as they reached the wall and began to pat it to find the door. His breathing pattern did not change, nor did he say anything in response to such a vile action, a somewhat disheartening signal for her to continue. "We started to run through the maze of back alleys in a vain attempt to outrun them. But it's always easier said than done in high heels on uneven terrain though. So, anyway, we split up and so did they. A few of them went after Jessie, and the rest kept on my tail. I didn't get very far before they managed to grapple me to the ground and secure me in their grasp. A few of the men lost their dignity. I was carried past three or four of them writhing on the floor, either cradling their mace soaked eyes or their bruised nuts."

"I found the door," he interjected, unwilling to hear the rest of her spurious story. Her words felt like knives through his spine, fuelling an anger he had never felt before. He did not care that she had lied to him, and that she continued to do so. After all, she was only behaving as he had done for the past month. No, he was simply angry at what he had become, angry at what she had turned him into, angry that she had nullified his defining characteristics. She had stripped down the Turk barrier and unleashed the real man he had never met before, the stranger underneath his skin, the weak, pathetic little lemming following the same dreams and ambitions as everyone else on life's conveyor belt. It was always lonely to sit atop his perch and watch the rest of the human race as they performed the bidding of their genetic information: copulate, conceive, copulate, conceive, copulate, conceive, die. But at least he had broken free from the constraints of normality. He was living proof that his was the next evolutionary step, that he had cheated God's design and, in doing so, cheated death, old age, illness and any other plight of the human body written into his genetic code.

Feigning immortality and breaking free from the constraints of normality could only stimulate his superior mind to a certain level. He still required interaction, some form of connection to the human race to prevent the isolation from rotting his brain. And his method of alleviating said problem also poked two fingers at the Lord Almighty, as he did so through sex in a series of one night stands with women ranging from curb crawlers to librarians. In essence, he siphoned all the fun out of the only enjoyable natural life process and left all the nasty responsibilities behind.

With enough time to reflect on his life, he realised the only human emotion he possessed that maintained his connection to the rest of human life was not lust. It was friendship, his friendship with Rude to be more precise. Sex was empty. It was hollow, shallow and unfulfilling. Like hunger or thirst, feeding such a desire satisfied him only momentarily before the isolation would constrict him once more. But his friendship, as he now knew, was the island in a raging sea, a safe haven in this world he did not understand, or, to put it better, this world he understood too well.

And she had taken that away from him.

"I don't think I can just boot this door down," he said, grabbing her hand and placing it against the wall. "I felt the inscription on the door. It's Shinra technology. These scumbags have no problem bad-mouthing the Electric Company but that doesn't mean they don't want to rely on their technology."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, genuinely confused, her hand glued to the wall.

"I used to work security at the Gold Saucer. The owner, Dio, like a lot of other businessmen, employed the use of Shinra technology to ensure they protected their property to the highest degree. These doors are impervious to bullets, bombs – you name it, it can withstand it. But that's all they were designed for, to keep brutes with more muscle than brains out. They're not designed to keep hackers, or electrical engineers out. Hell, you could figure out how to deactivate it by just reading the instruction manual."

"So?" she asked, hoping for some instruction rather some history.

"So," he responded, taking her other hand and placing it against the wall, "if we can find the control box we'll be able to open the door. It's a small plastic box with a touch-screen on it."

"OK. I know what it looks like; I saw it on my way in. I'll keep my hands low. You keep your hands high. I'll follow behind you."

"Alright, but be careful. You don't know what kinds of traps are laid out here. You might be best off using your phone's light."

"I would if I could. It doesn't have much battery life left."

"I suppose you'll have to do without it then," he sighed, sidestepping with deliberately large movements as to not trip over the cluster of dead bodies chained to the walls. "So what happened when those goons brought you here?" he asked, his genial inflections contrasting with the disturbing predicament they found themselves in. He obviously did not want to hear any more of her lies, but he wished to escape with her trust so that she would follow him where he could plot a befitting punishment for her and enjoy his revenge.

"Well, they brought me to the Don. Apparently the king of the slums is looking to settle down. He wants to end his life of meaningless sex and find a wife to produce his heirs."

Everyone eventually surrenders to the temptations of life's conveyor belt, he thought to himself.

"For some odd reason," she continued, still feeling her way around the wall, "the only way he can find women is if they are captured like wild animals and brought back to him for inspection."

"Forget one; that man has _seven_ too many screws loose."

"Tell me about it. I felt sick just looking at his face."

"So, did you pass the inspection then or what?" he asked, failing to hide his disgust in the disgusting question.

"Well, I don't consider myself as some piece of meat that is viable to be passed or not," she replied, failing to hide her condescension in the condescending response.

"Sorry. I'm just a little stressed. Carry on."

She continued with her story as they palmed the cold wall of their dark cell for the control box, recounting the events flawlessly and with vivid details. A part of him wanted her to stumble and stutter at some plot hole, but he knew that he needed to keep looking at the bigger picture, requiring her to have a certain sense of contentment and reassurance in their strengthening relationship over every hurdle they jumped. So he listened in silence, feeling his muscles twitch involuntarily as his anger melded with his confusion and bubbled under his surface.

After her story was over, the two did not speak much. He could not bring himself to invoke more inane chatter. She was too frightened of spitting out Rude's name in her constant worry over Jake. But, after forty minutes had slowly dragged by, she felt the little buzz of the distress button in her wristlet and let a smile grow, safe in the darkness. Tseng had found Jake. It was reassuring enough for her to limp closer to Reno and find his hand.

"What's up? Have you found the control box?" he asked impatiently.

"No. I just wanted to hold your hand." Letting an awkward silence pass, she kept the conversation, if it could be called so, going. "I missed you, y'know."

"Yeah... me, too. I know we didn't end things on the best of terms, but I still thought about you," he confessed, stroking her knuckles affectionately with his thumb.

"So, we did actually end things then?" She hid the disappointment in her voice, forgetting that he could not pick up on her emotions through her body language.

"I think my storming off after you moaned the name of one of your other lovers mid-coitus should have been the biggest clue that we ended things. What, did you think we were still together?" he sniped bitterly, releasing her hand.

"Firstly, Rude's not my..."

"I don't want to hear his name again!" he boomed, unable to contain his rage any longer. He luckily did not need to worry about the repercussions of his outburst, as the buzzing of electrical motors stole their attention. A yellow shaft split through the darkness, painting the dark floor in light, revealing all of its secrets. "Look," he called, scooping her over his shoulder, "you must've hit the switch."

She bobbed violently over his shoulder as he sprinted for the door. "What? I didn't touch anything," she managed to utter.

"It doesn't matter. The door's open, let's just get outta here."

He made for the door and winged as the light bleached his retinae. Adjusting as quickly as he could, he continued up the hallway, following Tifa's commands and a trail of dried blood. Meeting no resistance, he darted up the large stairwell, forgetting his reason for coming here in the first place. There were bigger fish to fry now, and his hunger for redemption fuelled his legs to power up the steps two at a time. Like his hunger, thirst, and sexual appetite, his desire for revenge was another trait that strapped him to the conveyor belt. He was becoming more human by the minute in his submission to humanity. Ironically, he could only accept this humanity by performing the inhuman act of murder. It was inhuman in theory, but not in nature. Murder was required for genetic information to pass forward. It was required to provide food and to eliminate rivals. The perception of this basic human act had simply been misconstrued over the years, meaning Reno had reverted back to an even more primitive state.

He didn't care. He knew killing her would only satisfy him momentarily, and that later down the line he might even regret doing so. But for now, in his drained, confused state, this felt right.

This felt right.

Panting heavily, he kicked open the double doors of the main entrance in an adrenaline-fuelled feat of superhuman strength and bolted for the alley to the left where he had parked his car. Upon reaching it, he clumsily dumped her on the bonnet and felt for his keys, soon realising the Don's goons had stolen everything on his person. So, he resorted to swiping his thumb under the driver-side window. A row of green lights followed the movement of his thumb and the car beeped as it unlocked.

"I never knew your car unlocked like that."

"Now's not the time," he responded, helping her off the bonnet before she hopped over to the other side of the car and fell in. In a similar fashion, he swiped his thumb across the dash over embossed letters that spelled _ignition_, inducing the engine to purr to life.

This time she chose not to say anything. Ignorant of his erratic mood swing and his even more erratic behaviour, she kept her focus on the task at hand; to regain his trust and his affection. He had confessed to missing her, and that was all she needed to make this work. From here, if all went to plan, she could finally obtain the happily ever after she deserved. All she needed to do was talk to him, to find the Reno lost after hours of psychological torment. And she would do anything to make him happy, anything to make this work for the both of them. On their own, they were both miserable wrecks, but together they could fight off any adversity and anesthetise one another's suffering.

All she needed was time.

All he needed was time. The open roads of the slum border would clear his head and give him the time to cogitate as he did best with _her_ in the passenger seat. He left the dense network of roads in the city centre and joined the highway circling the entire city. The surreal image of the plate obscuring half the sky like a giant flying saucer was almost too much to take in. The midday sun beat against the grass verge beyond the road, perfectly delineating slum territory from uninhabited countryside, almost as though it knew never to stray into the darkness, never to illuminate the filth in the gutter of a city. He set his speed to eighty and began to relax upon reaching a state of equilibrium with the traffic.

He tried not to look at her, for doing so would only invite questions: why he was held prisoner in the mansion, what he had been doing, where they were going. He couldn't handle any of that right now. He just needed to drive.

He glanced over at the glove compartment. The gun was waiting. Three bullets. He only needed one.

He never missed his target.


	25. Tifa

**25**

_**Tuesday, October 26th, 10:49am – Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six**_

"I'm sorry, Tifa."

Apologies should never be made in order to strive for success, or so the shills spawning at the base of every pyramid scheme had ever professed. But he could no longer measure his life as a series of successes and failures. It was too depressing to even think about it. So, instead, he simply came clean, stopped hiding behind machismo, and said a very belated sorry.

"Look, we can talk about this later. Right now we have something more important to deal with," she said, drying the tear tracks under her eyes with her palm as she strayed farther from his prying eyes and into those of engulfing shadows. Accompanied by nothing more than the sound of her own laboured breathing, she stopped, awaiting his reply. "Right?"

Rude wasn't ignoring her; he was simply paying more attention to his suspicion, his sixth sense. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose and tickled his skin, an evolutionary development that warned him of danger. After turning swiftly on his heels he caught sight of the small army that had stalked them through the darkness, and greedily gulped a lungful of air in preparation for the strident command that would hopefully engender enough adrenaline within Tifa in order for her to escape in time. But the command remained imprisoned in his mind as the pack's two pathfinders aimed their tasers and deployed a summated value of five-hundred-thousand volts through his body.

He shuddered violently, possessed by the electricity, witnessing the disproportionate explosions of gunfire through the darkness before he dropped to his knees. Like a fish out of water, he flapped and writhed against the floor as the two men relentlessly summoned lightning through his muscles, frying him like a piece of meat. He could still hear the gunshots and wondered if any of them had punched holes in his body. Above the confusing mixture of pain and numbness, he had lost all subjective awareness of his environment and his condition. Finally, succumbing to the persuasive whispers of pity or nausea, the men relinquished their roles as torturers and became interrogators. They slapped his cheeks and barked questions at him whilst he was still conscious, giving him the impression that they wanted him alive and were planning something far worse than barbequing him.

Receiving nothing but warm slobber and a vacant stare, they eventually clubbed the back of his neck. Working hard to attain their goal, they respected his potency, likening him to a bull that still would not submit to death after the matador had speared its neck with a third sword. It took four stretched minutes of beating before they knocked him out for the count and wiped their sodden brows, congratulating one another's efforts for bringing down this goliath. Marking the end of their job with hand signals, they paved the way for the guards that stepped closer to grip his limbs and drag him back into the shadows, a few of them finding the sight of his tongue lolling from his open mouth as it swept against the dirty floor amusing.

Antecedent to his head-first dive into the gelid waters of unconsciousness, his thoughts were framed by a few flashes of light. Between the flashes he could perceive faces, all warm and smiling as they should be and as he wanted them to be. The images flickered every time the batons struck his neck as though they were holograms or projections, but they filled his heart with joy and enough willpower to endure the trouncing for a little while longer.

The first image lasted the longest, wavering and washed by thin ripples of static like an old fashioned video looped to a certain scene over and over again. For that moment he was back in the bar between the backstreet methadone clinic and the twenty-four hour tattoo parlour in Sector Seven: a little place called Tifa's Seventh Heaven. He had finagled his way in and scooped the sleeping beauty that owned the place off the cinder blocks into his arms, trying desperately hard not to fall in love with her at the sight of her ruddy cheeks and her somnolent expression. She had one of those faces that made it easy to perceive how she might have looked as a child, owing to her pouting lips and her large doe eyes, an image of utter innocence marred by life in the city. But he was there for her. He had protected her, overriding his doubts of invading her privacy in favour of getting her back into the warmth and comfort of her own domicile. He didn't care what she thought of him; her wellbeing was more important.

And then there was that kiss, that soft entangling of lips, that exchanging of breath, that transfer of taste from one tongue to another; it was truly euphoric. In no mood to recognize its significance as it happened after he had recounted the sobering stories of his past, he saw it now in a different light. It was special, a milestone in their turbulent relationship that certainly meant more to her than she let on. He wouldn't pry such information from her when she was clearly uncomfortable about the situation; after all, her wellbeing was the most important thing to him. But she was kind to him. She willingly told him everything he wanted to hear through her body language, expressing herself through a flick of the hair or a bite of the lip.

The second image was of his ex-wife. No, actually it wasn't his ex-wife. It couldn't be. The woman in his head was smiling as she playfully roughhoused with a very young Jake, blowing raspberries on his stomach and rolling him on the grass to unlock those squeals of laughter and exuberance. No, _that_ woman was not his ex-wife at all; she was his _wife_. She was the woman he had known four years ago, the woman he had fallen in love with. But, even on a summery day in the park on a Sunday morning, Rude was nowhere to be seen in the picture. On that day he had come home fourteen hours later to collapse on his bed, his head in Monica's lap, after she had slotted in the videotape and tried to keep him awake so he could watch his son's first steps.

_God, I was such an ignorant bastard_.

The third and final image was a mere flicker, almost a subliminal message, before one of the guards hammered a final blow to knock him unconscious. Oddly enough the image was of Reno, not the Reno he knew as a teenager in the junior ranks, or the Reno he knew as his partner in crime: the astute, wily little man that thought quoting bible verses before murdering people made him look cool. It was an altogether different man. He had become his shadow, watching him carry Tifa through the blustery wind of autumn down to the slums. Somewhere through the corner of his eye, through his blurry peripheral vision, he saw Reno displaying an alien expression of fear and... and...

_Jealousy_?

With their final blow delivered, they had stolen the physical world from him, thus heightening his acuity and his interpretation of the mental imagery. His immediate thoughts were not of concerns over the gunfire that would compromise Tifa's safety, or his guilt for failing Monica as a decent husband, or the niggling desire to fathom the real Reno behind the veil of fatuity and callousness. Instead, he asked himself why he had not yet pictured Jake's face. Would he have gotten to him if the guards had not rendered him unconscious? If so, why did he think of Reno before him, or even Tifa for that matter? Surely he was the only person that deserved the greatest portion of his heart. He was the only one that could ever forgive his sins even if he hadn't done so already or if he could never believe such sentiment was possible. Deep down, he knew there would always be a place for his daddy in his heart, the same man he had looked up to and once worshipped as a hero.

The truth of the matter was that he had forced himself to ask these questions. Even though he had been freed from the physical world, he still could not picture his son's face, no matter how hard he tried. The implication was too disturbing to think about, leaving him floating in the dark recesses of his own mind, resorting to other trying questions to keep himself occupied. And so he moved on to his mortality in greater detail. Would any of the people he saw, and tried to see, even feel the slightest scintilla of grief if these brutes slit his throat right here? Reno's reaction would probably the easiest to call. He would keep his emotions bottled, possibly shed a genuine tear at his funeral, and move on with life relatively quickly. Perhaps Monica would do the same. As for Tifa and Jake, he dared not to even imagine their responses, fearful of the truth.

But the truth was already out there. If he died, he would get a rose thrown onto his coffin through a sense of tradition rather than a sense of affection, he would get a small mention and a clicking of beer mugs in Turk HQ, and a laconic description of his life in the obits of a few local newspapers penned by Tseng in the fleeting moments he could find between his mountains of paperwork. And that would be his send off, his big curtain call.

The musings stimulated the resuscitation of his atrophied willpower. He would survive whatever torment lay ahead of him and he would rescue Jake, and hopefully Tifa if he was not already too late, singlehandedly. From then on he would concentrate on rebuilding the bridge that connected his life to his son's and would quit chasing women that did not wish to be chased. He would give his life meaning, if not for himself then at least for his son, and there would nothing anyone could do to stop him.

Well. Almost nothing...

_**Tuesday, October 26th, 12:12pm – Reno's Car, Seltzer Highway**_

"Look."

It was the first word he had said since the awkwardness had sucked the atmosphere from the vehicle, leaving the two veterans of many love wars in a suffocating vacuum of silence and uncomfortable glances. The worst of it occurred when they both reached for the radio dial in order to change the station, favouring the heavy, gloomy drone of electric guitars over the flowery pop of Midgar FM. Their fingers grazed one another's as they reached out, but there was no spark, no warmth, no recognition. And so, they both recoiled and let the flowery pop irritate them in fear of more unwarranted physical contact.

She couldn't help but feel he was simply too disgusted to touch her. But that wasn't going to stop her. She was a fighter through and through. But maybe that was her problem. She couldn't figure out whether she fought for things she really wanted or simply fought for the sake of fighting. It was only natural for her to pursue seemingly unattainable goals in order to redeem herself for her failures. After all, she was no longer a warrior on the battlefield; she didn't have the heart for it. But she was mentally impervious to defeat, an indomitable force to be reckoned with.

Of course, it couldn't really be so black and white, but she could still summate her entire life in the slums as nothing more than a fight against the odds. There was some Darwinian law shouting for attention in such a presumption. There had to be.

"Look," he repeated, failing to camouflage his lack of enthusiasm.

She opened her eyes, struggling to focus as the pain rushing up her foot almost rendered her unconscious. She had been fighting silently against that, too, of course. "Yeah?"

"I'm... I'm sorry I yelled at you back there. It's just that... well, I don't know where my head is right now."

"Ditto."

"So I was thinking."

She waited patiently for him to continue, realising he may have been holding back until she gave him the nod of approval. "About?"

"About this... this _Rude_ fella."

"Oh, God. Not this again, Reno."

He had considered leaving the topic alone if only to retain his unruffled nature, or at least the outward appearance of such. But there was too much he wanted to know, too much that didn't add up. Feeling the presence of his gun in the glove box, he still hadn't formulated a plan of action, but needed to learn the truth before he did anything drastic. Besides, he was getting a little too familiar with the sound of her gentle breath. It was almost therapeutic, a sure-fire sense of comfort that had to be eradicated for the sake of gaining vengeance.

"Ten minutes ago you bit my head off for mentioning his name. Now you wanna talk about him?" she asked. With a laborious sigh, she pinched the bridge of her nose, soon massaging her pulsing eyes over closed lids.

"I know I'm sending you all these crazy mixed signals, and I'm sorry. I just..."

"It won't do either of us any good. Trust me."

"I beg to differ. I think it's been gnawing away at me for too long now. I need some form of catharsis, something to help me understand why all this happened."

"But why do you need to know? Don't you think some stones are better left unturned?"

He shrugged abjectly and responded without facing her, exhibiting a thousand yard stare out into the middle of the road. "I've never been able to overcome my Rubik's complex."

"He's just a friend of mine. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Well, it'd be a lot more convincing if you hadn't been thinking about him whilst we were fucking."

She grimaced, letting her head fall back against the rest. "You don't have to make it sound so vulgar."

"Well, sometimes the truth is vulgar, honey."

"I just don't want this to come between what we have. I mean... I can see you're finding it hard to forgive my transgression, but I don't want it to come between our friendship. You mean a lot to me, Reno. More than you think you do." She let a muted moan pass through quivering lips as she glanced down at her injured foot.

He stole a glimpse of her pain-stricken expression and spoke before thinking. "Shit. We've gotta get you to a hospital."

It was his first instinct. He had already fluently darted through four lanes of traffic, the accelerator pedal slowly reclining under the force of growing concern, before he realised the old sense of affection sweeping through his mind like a dense fog. After remembering what she had done, or what she had secretly confessed to have done, and his prior intentions for getting her in the car he let his foot off the pedal. The car decelerated slowly, prompting the motorists behind him to flash their lights, honk their horns, and yell at him to get out of the fast lane. Ignoring them, he could only respond to her response. She was furrowing her brows and giving him that vacant glance he hated; it made her look stupid. But she had a right to look confused.

He slammed his foot against the accelerator once more in an attempt to satisfy her curiosity, but only exacerbated the situation as the car lurched forward at breakneck speed, subjecting them to forces that did not play nicely with their stomachs. Receiving more honks and taunts from fellow drivers, he collected his breath and carefully made his way to the hard shoulder. The vehicle came to a stop on the embankment, throwing a plume of dust in its wake. His final action was a deep intake of salubrious air as he rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

As anxious as she was perplexed she reached out to touch his shoulder, moving slowly and cautiously as though she was still in the umbra of Corneo's torture chamber. She suddenly withdrew her outstretched arm, however, as he bolted upright and pushed back against the wheel.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered. Even though he was apologising to Rude, and partly to himself, for his submission to weakness, she had accepted it as her own, left to decipher the appropriate response. It was an arduous task, given that she had never really seen such a vulnerable side to him. She couldn't even recall him ever saying those words in the context of seeking forgiveness for a crime or sin. But, looking over their time together, he had never really needed to. She had made all the mistakes. She had been dishonest. She had damaged the relationship beyond repair. It was all her fault, and now she was expecting him to go out of his way to overcome _their_ relationship flaws, all the while seeing his apology as a long awaited necessity.

_I should be the one apologising, Reno. Not you._ It's what she wanted to say. Instead, she said, "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"You know me better than anyone."

His intention was of subtle flattery. But upon hearing it back in his head he realised it was true. His character in her presence was initially a work of fiction, sprouting from the minds of failed novelists in cramped plate-level offices. But after she had warmed to him, and after he had subconsciously warmed to her, he began to let his true nature leak out. Given enough time, she could probably work him out like a simple algebraic equation, understanding him, the human enigma, better than anyone else on the face of the earth.

The insight did little to calm his rattling nerves.

Frustrated by her sustained reticence, he prodded further. "If this guy means nothing to you, I don't see why you're finding it so difficult to talk about him."

And, just like that, he finally did have something to apologise for: he surely made her feel like crap when he spat pure condescension in her face.

She rolled her eyes upwards and sighed heavily. Perhaps the pain of speaking could detract from the pain in her foot?

"Fine."

He turned to face the road once more, readying himself by hiding his eyes. "OK. Hit me with it."

"His name's Rude..."

"Yeah, that much I know already," he quickly interjected, expecting such an opener.

"Listen, I'm giving you what you want, so shut up and quit acting like such a jerk."

"I'm... I'm sorry," he repeated with forced conviction.

There was that word again. He was getting quite familiar with it now.

"I met him about two weeks ago. We bumped into each other in the slums around Sector Seven."

_Yeah, I remember. I saw it all. You saw him coming, even dropped your grocery bags to make it look convincing. You were getting bored with me, weren't you? You were getting sick of my secrecy and my limp dick, so you went after the first man that looked as though he could at least partially satisfy your base desires._

"It was a chance meeting, just one of those things that happen," she continued, mirroring his desire to stare into middle distance as she spoke. "And that's all it was."

"OK." He did his best to sound calm.

"We went for an innocent coffee," she said, omitting the fact that the coffee in question had been consumed in her apartment. It wasn't as though she was lying; she was just telling him what he needed to know. What good would it do to say he had gotten into her apartment in a fraction of the time it had taken Reno, and that he did not require an expensive trip to Kalm and two and a half dates to do so? "And then we got to talking."

"Wait, wait, wait. Who is this guy? What does he do? What does he look like?"

"Is that really important?"

"It is to me."

It really was. He wanted to kill her as much as he wanted to redeem her, and her ensuing description of this mystery man would sway him towards one option or the other. He was hoping he was simply insane, that their chance meeting was a dream concocted by sleep deprivation and alcohol, that he had simply mistaken his Rude for hers. It was a long shot, but it would have made things so much easier.

"He's a Turk." She made no hesitation, expecting him to either burst out laughing, burst into tears, or ask her to clarify what a _Turk_ actually was.

He did none of the above, choosing to simply gulp hard and let go of every muscle in his face. Making every movement as deliberate as possible, he eventually turned the ignition key and clutched the gear knob, only to wince at the cold sensation of her fingers draping over his knuckles.

"You know about the Turks?" she asked with an inflection that bordered on interrogation rather than curiosity. After all, they were a secret organisation known only by scouted SOLDIER candidates, political traitors, and members of the ever-growing rebellion from which she had been excommunicated.

He nodded gravely, disappointedly.

"But... how?"

She hadn't made the connection yet; the fact that Rude and Reno bore striking similarities in spite of their differences did not even occur to her. Sure they both were exotic, standing out of the grey backdrop like fireworks against a blank night sky, and they had both stolen her to a fantasy land of quixotism and errantry, treating her to unprecedented affection. But that was nothing more than a very favourable coincidence. Right?

She was still clueless, unrelenting to believe the subdued voice that had been screaming at her to get out of the car and run as fast as her injured foot would allow her.

"You were talking on your phone back in the mansion," he said, peering into the wing mirror to find a safe moment to rejoin the traffic. "You said something about killing this guy, this Rude person... this _Turk_."

"Wh-what? I didn't... I..." She slowly slipped her hand away from his, watching it retreat shakily like a close-up shot in a bad horror movie. "Answer me!" Her curiosity morphed into anger almost as fast as his had done. The only difference was that she did not have to hide hers. "Well? How do you know about the Turks?"

Slamming his foot against the accelerator, spinning the rear wheels in a frenzied burnout, he rocketed onto the road, ignoring the resulting collisions behind him as he uttered, "Take a guess, you stupid bitch."

_**Tuesday, October 26th, 11:00am – Room 101, Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six**_

"Stay still. Stay silent."

Like a frightened infant on her first day of school, Tifa held on to Tseng's hand for as long as she possibly could before he, like all the men in her life, deserted her. He still could feel the moisture of her muggy breath on his neck until he stepped out into the light of the air-conditioned hallway. With his attention returned to the keypad, he closed the door, sealing her in. He was a man of traditional valour, good for his word and the promises he kept, so he would return for her if he could. But, in the unlikely event of his capture, his choice to close the door and occlude the only source of light she had left could have been misconstrued as spiteful instead of remorseful: he was either protecting her or entombing her for eternity.

He retraced his steps to the main staircase in order to utilise a more systematic searching approach. Clearing his mind, he combed his way through the now desolate hallways with his gun aloft to splice through the small pools of lamplight and the eerie white noise. It reminded him of his days in the academy and the simulated combat zones crawling with senior instructors wishing to test the cadets' skills. Armed with nothing more than paint guns and a gas mask, a little more primitive than the laser guns and electronic visors used in the academy today, he had had to wander through mock hallways such as this, hoping to keep his suit free of paint to pass his final exam and to conceal his obsessive compulsive behaviour.

Of course, his result was unrivalled: he had negotiated the hallways perfectly, fell for none of the traps, and rescued the fake hostage with ease. His supervisors were so pleased that they had insisted he give the valediction at the pomp masquerading as a graduation ceremony upheld by a century of tradition. It didn't bother him; on the contrary, he was happy to gratify their delusions of grandeur with a fake smile and a semi-plagiarised speech. But he knew that after the war ended there would be no use for his impressive skills, that he would be forced to become a brainless hitman, or a pitiful SOLDIER scout, or, worse still, a supervisor at the academy. So, in a way, it was almost satisfying to return to this world of suspense and darkness, to return to his home away from home.

Dusting off his old skills, he used his memory of the hallways to avoid any areas that would leave him exposed and vulnerable. Of course, he couldn't flat out ignore them, for they would be the most likely places to keep the child, but he had to use his wits to traverse them without getting himself or Jake killed. Corneo was not a generally intelligent man, but he was highly respected by many men in Sector Six, if not many men in the entirety of Midgar. He was a philanthropist amongst the perverse, spreading the concubines he no longer desired across the city to men of all castes, sowing seeds of illicit goodwill. Those seeds eventually grew, flourishing in the impoverished land, developing into friendship and then into loyalty. So, even though his mind moved at a slower pace than others, with the multitude of aces up his sleeve he was not one to underestimate.

After retracing his steps, finding no secret hiding places, he began to venture into unchartered territory, into the remainder of the unmapped basement. Coming across adversity almost immediately, he efficiently dispatched two patrolmen, firing two silenced bullets into their backs. He no longer cared about covering his tracks after wasting so much time: his foresight directed him to sacrifice invisibility for increased speed. The clock was ticking, and he knew Corneo would not keep Jake alive any longer than required. His impatience would probably override his desires for the correct dramatic effect, leaving Tseng with less and less time to get this right.

Suppose you don't, he thought to himself, as he continued to blindly wander. How would he handle the survival of his agents without the survival of Jake? He would not be able to tell Rude the truth regarding Reno's dishonesty, even though he loathed the prospect of lying to a man he greatly respected, as he knew the only positive, albeit utterly dysfunctional, human connection he had left was with Reno. And, even though he did not deserve to be protected, he knew Reno's intentions were not evil, they were simply misguided.

Although he knew he had done nothing wrong, he and his leadership skills would have to bear the brunt of the blame. But he also knew his role as a leader required preparation for such circumstances; scandals and treachery had plagued the life and work of every senior Turk since the group's conception, his own father a prime example. The old man was a great thinker and an even better speaker. He was a man of superior tastes, a nobleman born in the mud of a backwater town where philosophical thinking was prohibited and the practise of archaic religious doctrines was mandatory. As a young man he would lock himself away in the cloisters dedicated to colourful deities, relying on epistolary communication with western minds to restore his faith in man's sanity as opposed to praying for forgiveness. His penned thoughts soon caught the eyes of powerful academics in Midgar that insisted he studied there under a scholarship funded by the state.

After gaining a first class degree in law and politics, and joining Midgar's intelligentsia, he was invited to become one of President Shinra's strategists and to work on Operation Conundrum that later bore the Wutai war. Preferring not to be involved with anything related to his hometown, he respectfully declined the offer. However, feeling the man's talents would be going to waste, Shinra personally asked him to join the Turks instead. Aware of their pampered lifestyle and their reputation, he was delighted to accept the challenge.

Bypassing all academy training, he shot to the top using nothing more than his mind, a feat that did little more than aggravate his inferiors, generating tension and destroying any sense of budding trust. Evidently his two agents resented him and occasionally made deliberate mistakes in order to remove him from his seat of power. Ultimately one mistake led to another, resulting in the capture and gruesome slaughter of the two agents by the hands of rebels.

Even so, the organisation, used to such loss, did not strip him of his power or seriously reprimand him. But the guilt of indirectly murdering – slaughtering – two individuals was too much for him to take. Although articulate and forward-thinking, he was still just a simple village boy entangled in the bloodstained web of the big city. Rendered clinically depressed, he took to the bottle to endure a slow and painful death. In the end, his cowardice defeated him, and he was found swinging by a makeshift noose in his office, leaving his newly pregnant wife and his unborn child with nothing more than his legacy and a suicide note.

Tseng continued to amble through the darkness, entering a cavernous hallway of equal dimensions to the torture chamber. This, however, received the gentle light of lanterns and candles that almost bestowed a sense of tranquillity that he knew could not exist, like an atheist discovering a subtle sense of beauty in mankind's dogmatic faith. And there was the child, safe and sound, hugging his knees in a corner that remained unmolested by light. Still lost in an ocean of thoughts regarding the father he never knew, he forgot every trick and rule that had awarded him the highest mark in the academy, and walked over to the boy. Daring not to jar his nerves with sudden movements and a threat of impending doom he approached Jake slowly.

The boy looked up and cowered in fear, recognising the suit in an instant.

"Hey, kid, don't worry," he whispered, trying to use his most soothing voice. He held his hand aloft for Jake to grab onto, sighing as the child crawled further away from him and curled into the foetal position.

He wanted to just grab the boy and run, fully aware that he could not scream and give away their location. But he did not wish to put him under any more stress than was necessary.

Feeling the bead of sweat drip down his forehead, Tseng began to feel defenceless in the open environment, completely ignoring the eyes in the back of his head. Before he could even get so much as a finger to his pistol, the thunderous sound of fifty guns cocking rang around him.

"That's three out of three," Corneo whispered smugly into his ear.

_**Tuesday, October 26th, 1:04pm, S-7 Train Station, Sector Seven**_

This place could have been hell for all he cared.

He stumbled onto the platform, choking on a new taste in the air. He had no recollection of ever being stationed in this city. Barring the rumours of a rising insurgency, there wasn't much to do here for a SOLDIER of his calibre. Shinra usually sent truckloads of cadets here from Junon to maintain order. The young men were not strong or intelligent enough to handle more pressing issues in warzones or areas of political interest, but they were definitely good at assuming that they _were_ strong or intelligent, which made them perfect at intimidating the feeble slum-dwellers.

Even though his memory of the city did not serve him well there was still an atmosphere of familiarity about the place. The barracks back in Junon shared the same suffocating warmth in the air, substituting only the stench of stale sweat for open sewers and barbeque smoke. The neon lights were new, giving him something fascinating to look at and also something to take his mind off the tangible disease crawling through his veins, wrenching his stomach and jabbing at his nerves.

The throngs of labourers scuttling out of the train to the sector's famous bars and restaurants brushed past him, pushing him one way and the other, clearly favouring a full stomach over his safety. They rapidly vacated the train that hissed as it began its departure for the next sector, spinning its wheels in unison with his spinning head. He shuffled away from the blurred faces behind him, trying to control his nausea until he could obtain a certain sense of privacy. The only entity larger than his malady was his pride, after all.

Waiting no longer, he fell to his knees behind a dumpster with his palms flat against the tarmac. His mouth began to salivate uncontrollably, spilling drool from the corner his lips onto his trembling fingers. The pulse ascending up his oesophagus stifled his breath before he vomited a vile concoction of blood and congealed clumps of mako powder. The taste left behind in his mouth was enough to send a shiver of anxiety down his spine. Of all the things he could remember, he knew vomit should definitely not taste like that.

With barely an ounce of strength left, he fell onto his back, narrowly avoiding the red and green puddle more fowl than the city's open sewers, and tried to call for help. Unable to spit out anything more coherent than the word _Zack_, he simply made as much noise as he could, producing nothing more than a pathetic, airy screech.

He didn't expect to attract any attention: he could barely hear himself over the echoing sounds of bustling life. Even so, he persisted, writhing around as the nausea multiplied into an indescribable symptom of an imaginary disease fed to his bloodstream by the beady-eyed professor still locked away in the crypt of the Shinra mansion. He screamed for the sake of his life, for the sake of his sanity, for the sake of his trust in the goodness that surely still existed in the human spirit.

And, at the speed of his beating heart, he was a silenced, not by pain, nor by a lack of motivation. This silence was actually instigated by a single thought; an epiphany. If he was just an ordinary man fighting to get out of the train, trying to make the most of his short lunch break by grabbing a bite of sushi or a pint of beer, would he stop and wade through the gutter to help a dying vagrant? Would he go hungry for the day in order to save a somewhat lesser life? He could only imagine an empathic nature had gotten him captured by that mad scientist in the first place. Maybe he had gone back to rescue a fallen comrade in a battle of sorts. Maybe he had volunteered to become the scientist's lab rat to spare another the pain and humiliation. Either way,_ this_ wasn't worth it. If he wanted to survive he would have to start looking out for himself alone. He needed neither baggage nor any emotional connection cementing him to the ground as the trials and tribulations of life slowly drowned him. If he did make it out of the other side of this illness, he vowed to change, ensuring nothing like this would ever happen to him again.

Alas, as the thought of recovering from this illness even crossed his mind, he was confronted by a celestial creature of incomprehensible beauty. The poet laureates that romanticised death had all been correct in their descriptions of the angels that transcribe one's sins and good deeds before lifting them off the ground ready for judgement. This particular angel spoke indiscernibly, but her sound was soft, sweet, and utterly reassuring. He used the last of his dwindling might to crane his neck upwards and get a better glance at her.

The poets may have hit the right chord regarding angelic beauty, but that was an assumption passed through generations since the inception of religion, distorted through constant reinterpretation. What they had failed to prepare him for was the overall dullness of the situation. He was promised a blinding white light, a sensation of purity washing over his physical and spiritual wounds, an immediate understanding of the workings of the universe and the meaning of life. He wanted to laugh at the simple answer that would befall him, to be free of his pain and his fear, to earn his place in eternal warmth and sunshine. But this angel did not loom from a source of blinding light; she simply walked – limped – over to him. Looking beyond her face he could still see the mortal world: the graffiti covering the walls lining the train tracks; the tired street lamps highlighting the poverty; the giant concrete plate hovering above them, holding a city of its own, independent from the squalor below it. He could still smell his fowl vomit, and the open sewers, and the petrol fumes, and the variety of cooked meats and spices. Most of all, he could still feel his pain, the physical manifestation of evil wreaking havoc within his body.

He dropped his head back in disappointment and closed his eyes, wishing simply to die and get the ordeal he called his life over with. It only took one drop of blood to open his eyes and lift his head back off the ground regardless of whether he possessed the energy to do so. At first he just felt a warm tingle on his palm, when he looked back at the angel, still mumbling incoherently and staring at him with wild fascination, he witnessed the blood dripping from a scar on her cheek to his palm, collecting in a small crevice.

This was no angel. She was a mortal; a mortal in danger just like him.

He squinted to get a better glimpse of her ever moving lips and tried to recognise the words sprouting from them.

_Cloo..._

_Colou..._

_Clou..._

_Culu..._

_Cloud... _

_Cloud... Cloud, are you OK? Cloud, can you hear me? Cloud! Cloud!_

She was mistaken. But that did not stop him from reacting. If pretending to be this _Cloud_ person awarded him rescue he would go along with it and exploit her for everything she had. After all, things needed to change. He needed to worry about himself alone. He needed to leave empathy behind in this gutter with his steaming pile of vomit.

"Can you hear me, Cloud?"

He outstretched a hand shakily, enjoying the warmth of hers as she grasped it and held it to her cheek affectionately. With his fingers free he brushed the dark strands of hair from her eyes and began to speak reflexively. He spoke in tongues, almost as though he had been possessed by a spirit of some kind. The word that left his lips was as unintelligible to him as the garbled sounds of this angelic woman. Even so, it was a beautiful word. It was a powerful word. It brought a tear to his eye, even though he did not know what he was saying.

"... Tifa," he whispered before resting his heavy lids once more.


	26. Redemption

**26**

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 2:14pm – Room 101, Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

He had taken his shades off only momentarily before the light stole the darkness and bleached his vision. The light had ironically blinded him, rendering him unable to open his eyes until his rummaging fingers successfully navigated the floor and found his sunglasses. He may have been able to_ see_ the room more comfortably in the dark, and felt more at home there, but the light gave it a new dimension. He could now appreciate its sheer volume, the colours of the walls, metallic grey with spatters of muddy-red and rust, and the faces of deceased Wutaian slaves that became real humans as opposed to lumps of flesh that emitted a foul stench. The light spared no grisly detail and reminded him why he loved the dark, why he loved to hide behind his shades. Unlike most rational people who feared things they could not see in darkness or in the future, he only feared the horrors presented before him. Even if he was aware of a source of fear, as long as he could not see it or feel it he would remain content and push it to the back of his mind.

He pushed himself upright and sat back against the wall as Corneo's cowboy boots click-clacked into the room, sidestepping the outstretched leg of one of his victims.

"Sorry about the smell," Corneo spoke as he gestured at the dead bodies with a nod of the head. "It seems like a pointless act of violence, I know, but these women were not murdered, at least not intentionally for some form of sick sexual gratification."

"It's nice to know you have limits regarding your disgusting sexual habits," Rude sniped.

"Yeah. Well, this is where I kept the bad eggs; the women that weren't obedient enough; the rebels if you will. They wouldn't follow orders, or work, or even eat or drink for that matter. They were useless to me and to all of my clients. I think they were all following the example set by _this one_," Corneo scoffed, nudging the foot of the corpse closest to his only living prisoner, disturbing the pullulating maggots hidden underneath. "So I responded to their rebellion by locking them down here until they came to their senses. It was either a life of humiliation or no life at all. Which do you think you would choose, Rude?"

The Turk nearly smiled.

"Are you serious?"

"Sure, it sounds like a stupid question, but give it a good think. Your life may be pathetic, but it's still a life. You can still feel, still think, still dream of a future better than this. Would you be brave enough to kill yourself, just to stick it to me? And I'm not talking about a quick bullet to the head or a peaceful drift into death with a slit of the wrists: I'm talking about dying of hunger, of thirst."

"I'm not playing your game, Corneo. Just tell me what you want."

"Of course you aren't," Corneo chuckled, pacing from side to side by Rude's feet. "Y'know, it's a shame Reno and Tifa couldn't stay here for the party. I wonder what happened to them."

"Are we really doing this?"

"Alright, alright, you said no more games; I'll play nice. In spite of that, however, I'm still very interested in why you let them go. They were _my_ prisoners. You had no right to free them from _my_ virtual abyss."

"Fuck you," he snapped, unwilling to waste his breath explaining the complications of his dysfunctional love for Tifa.

At least that's what he told himself. The fact that he simply did not know or did not want to know the answer felt more honest, but he was altogether too sick of honesty to care. What had it ever accomplished or done for him? If he had just kept his mouth shut around Reno regarding his _love_ for Tifa he may have been able to sidestep this whole ordeal. If he hadn't gotten so tangled up in this web of jealousy and possession then he may have realised that he simply coveted her, had a crush on her that would have abated given enough time. He would have realised he did not really want her; he simply did not want Reno to have her.

Then again, it may have simply been a mixture of the two, ensnaring him in a state of ambivalence regarding the enemy. The beautiful enemy–

No! The truth was he had never loved anyone. He could describe his feelings towards other people, people close to him, his child, his parents, but compared to the lyrical poetry of others inspired by this intangible, spiritual adhesive he could only assume love was an unconquerable expectation. Perhaps this was his punishment for his Godless existence: or his test to return him to God's love, the only love that really matters. He often questioned God about his misfortunes, the majority of them focusing on Reno and why He had chosen to bring their lives together. But now he knew. He needed to see what a life of hedonism and debauchery could do to the soul, how it could rot it away into oblivion. Of course, this did not mean he would suddenly adopt a puritanical lifestyle straight away. It would take time to grow closer to God. And with this many guns trained to his skull he wouldn't probably have the time to change anyway.

Still, it's the thought that counts. At least that's what he hoped.

"Oh my God, that is pathetic," Corneo cackled after examining Rude's face closely. "You still love her don't you?"

This time Rude did smile. He knew Corneo was simply toying with him, that he just wanted to enjoy the thrill of the kill. With his limited strength he would not be able to escape alive. In actuality he was ready to die, ready to join the rebellion of the dead Wutaian slaves that engulfed him with their overpowering stench, ready to even starve to death or die of thirst or of pain itself. But he wouldn't admit that to Corneo, for admitting that would signal checkmate. He was simply a set of building blocks, and Corneo was the angry, chubby child that wanted to smash and break them down. Well, he was already broken, already worn down to his basic components of callousness, selfishness and immorality. But what he needed more than death was time, enough time for Reno to return and save Jake.

"You may have amazing sight to find the door's failsafe switch in the dark," Corneo continued, "but you ain't deaf, are you, Rude? C'mon, you heard what she said."

"The fact that she no longer loves me does not mean I no longer love her."

"_No longer_? Fuck, Rude, I thought you were the smart one."

"I don't think she loved me the first time she saw me, nor do I think she loved me the last time she saw me. But there was something there in between. Some spark, some connection between the two of us that was only extinguished by the war between our people."

"Oh, how romantic," Corneo bleated sarcastically. "The star-crossed lovers were torn apart simply because one was a Montague and the other was a Capulet!"

"We shared one another's secrets. We're both still alive. What does that tell you?"

"Are you still talking about the woman that claimed she had killed you?"

"Maybe she was protecting me."

"Or maybe she was protecting herself!" he interjected, his grin growing at the sight of this sudden realisation creeping over his prisoner's face.

Corneo paced back and forth by Rude's feet once more. He wasn't really as morally deplorable as he let on: he didn't enjoy capturing children or threatening to kill people, but this was all in the name of honour. The bodies of the Wutaian slaves were proof of this, for he did not want to let them all die painfully. On the contrary, he gave them the choice to live and work by his rules. They would get shelter and food and freedom – well, freedom is a relative term – but they chose to die for their honour, just as he was prepared to kill for his. He had been pushed around and bullied by the Turks for long enough. It was time he reclaimed his territory and reclaimed the respect of his citizens. The word of his conquer over the Turks would spread across his kingdom like wildfire, and his knowledge of the whereabouts of a certain Monica Gauthier would keep the Shinra off his backs long enough for him to build an army of loyal men willing to die to protect their hero, their saviour of the Plate-dwelling oppressors, their king.

"My father designed this room to be a bomb shelter, y'know, back in the days when war with Wutai was an imminent threat. Sure their mechanical weapons were primitive, but nobody knew what kind of materia they had. We had to prepare for the worst."

Rude remained reticent. He didn't want to say anything stupid that would bring that disgusting grin back on Corneo's face.

"It's amazing what engineering can do these days," he continued, "I've always wanted to test this room out, take it for a test spin if you will, but ever since you bastards built that plate above us it kinda rendered it obsolete. But, then again, maybe we don't need a bomb from outside. I mean, I wonder if this room could withstand a detonation from a bomb that was _inside_ it."

"Quit the fucking dramatics and just tell me what you want!" Rude bellowed, finally losing the last scraps of his patience.

Corneo appreciated the fact that the Turk's paroxysm of rage was incredibly abnormal, and so he decided to press on with a simple click of the fingers. It was enough to catch Rude's attention. He lifted his chin and stared at the chubby fingers as they almost pointed to the door he had earlier unlocked and used to free the other two corners of his love triangle. As though the he was looking at a negative of a familiar photograph, he strained to see through the doorway as the light within the bomb shelter was now brighter than that in the hallway. The shaded outline of three men entered. With a sense of great urgency, they pushed a smaller shadow ahead of them until it was visible as a small child – as Jake.

Rude quickly took to his feet before Corneo halted him with the sight of a gun trained to Jake's head. He froze in his tracks and followed the sight of the gun to tear tracks connecting the corners of the boy's eyes to the corners of his mouth. However, the sight of him in such danger was not the most heart wrenching. No, the fact that he looked more afraid of Rude than Corneo or any of his men felt like an icy dagger plunged in his side, twisting over and over again until he was incapable of speech, of movement, of breathing. He wanted to speak to his son, to tell him everything would be OK, even if he knew they probably wouldn't be. He just wanted to comfort him. He wanted his son to know he would protect him with his life, if only he knew how to communicate such sentiment without frightening him.

Jake backed away from Rude, bumping into one of his aggressors, finding more safety in their company than his own father's. They pushed him away from them again, almost as if they were more afraid of him than he was of them, and Rude soon realised why: he had become a human bomb. Wires of all colours sprouted from a jacket several sizes too large, originating from a lead case at the breast, more likely than not containing active mako, and connecting with the metal buttons of the cuffs that extended well beyond the length of his arms. Not only was the jacket intended for an adult body, it was also Shinra technology. It seemed Corneo had friends in very high places, both metaphorically and literally.

"OK, Rude. There's some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?" Expecting no response, he carried on. "Well the good news is I'm finally going to tell you what I want of you. But the bad news is I'm not done playing games. In fact, what I want of you is to play one final game for me. Oh but don't worry, it's a real fun one. Granted, I was wasted when I cooked it up, but that only adds to the fun."

"Fine. Just let my son go and I'll do whatever you want."

"That's what I like to hear. Restrain him, boys."

The men that had pushed Jake into the room left and promptly returned with what appeared to be a large clasp so heavy it took all three of them to carry it in. They attached it to a free set of chains by the wall before carefully approaching Rude and gesturing for him to follow them calmly. He did not protest and walked over to the enormous restraint, relieving eye contact with his son to ease the boy's discomfort. He conveniently relieved his own discomfort in the process, but could only assume his sudden submersion in the light of faith highlighted every one of his actions as selfish or morally wrong. It wouldn't be all bad. He couldn't read his subconscious entirely well, after all. At least this way he was able to atone for any sin he committed, even the ones he wasn't sure he had actually committed.

_Forgive me, Lord. Please take my life and spare my son. _

They buckled the large clasp around his waist, surprised that its immense weight did not drag him to the floor where he belonged. He did not even flinch. He merely absorbed the pain as he was so used to doing. As soon as they had finished locking him in position, they all scurried out of the room, including the superfluous guards aiming their guns at the helpless child, until it was just the three of them. Jake shimmied away from the frightening bodies on the ground and picked an empty corner to sit and bury his head in his arms. He closed his eyes, covered his ears with his arms and rocked the way his mother had taught him to do whenever he was scared.

He thought of blue skies and songbirds, of flowers swaying in the breeze by rivers that flowed towards the sunset, of the immemorial days when he could take normality for granted, when he could take innocence for granted. He thought about Marlene. If only it could be just the two of them. They would jump into the picture that hung above the door in their classroom, the picture of the lone tree by the riverbed, extending its leafy branches over the face of the water. They would sit in that tree, hiding from all the darkness in the world within the branches, or go swimming in the cool water, or simply sit on the bank with their bare feet in the water, she talking about all the wonderful things they could see and do, he simply listening to the sound of her voice. Her voice, that of his one true friend, was enough to drown out the horrors of all the death and destruction that his father seemed to lure out of all the cracks and crevices of this world.

Corneo moved closer to Rude and lowered his voice to leave Jake in his blissful reverie. "I really don't want to kill the kid," he said, as he removed a hand gun from a holster in his jacket and, bizarrely, handed it over to Rude. Rude took a firm grasp of the nozzle, playing a miniature game of tug of war with the Don. "But, should _anything_ happen to me–" He eventually released his grasp on the gun, before continuing, "–my men won't hesitate to walk in here and butcher your child in front of your very eyes."

"And what do you expect me to do with _this_?" Rude asked, inspecting the gun inside and out, forever buying more time. Of course he knew what he was supposed to do with it. There was only one bullet in the chamber: what else could he do with it?

"I expect you to _entertain_ me, Rude. I'll be watching from up there." He pointed to a camera in the top corner of the room. "When you see the red light under the camera the bomb around your son will activate. The timer is only set for ten seconds. The only way to deactivate the bomb is for you to shoot yourself. No, that's not right. What I meant to say was that the only way to deactivate the bomb is for you to _kill_ yourself. I don't you to shoot yourself in the arm and blame it on the semantics. I want that bullet to go through your brain." He turned back to face Jake, who was now staring at the two of them, transfixed in position by the gravity of the situation. "Looks like junior was listening, after all. I'm getting the impression he wants you dead almost as much as I do."

"You expect me to believe you? You think I'm that stupid?"

Corneo waddled over to the door, stopping to reassure his victim. "Contrary to what you might believe, when I say I don't want to kill the kid, I mean it."

"Well if you want me dead so much why don't you just shoot me yourself?"

"Because I don't want half of Shinra's army down my throat. When your boys in blue come down here to claim your body, I'll show them the security tape of you committing suicide. Of course the video will be the abridged version of the real thing, but your colleagues will get the gist of what happened down here."

"You may be able to pull the wool over Heidegger's eyes. God knows, you're probably already in cahoots with the fat bastard. But you won't be able to convince Reno or Tseng that I wanted to kill myself."

"Well, Tseng is next on my list of dead Turks. He's lying in the control room, boy he took a hell of a beating to render unconscious. You Turks are a tough breed, I'll give you that."

Rude ground his teeth together to prevent himself from cursing in front of his child. He knew Corneo was not bluffing. After all, Tseng had pushed the panic button indicating he had found Jake, and now Jake was sat before him, finding courage from the impending auto-execution to look him in the eye, or whatever he could fathom behind those shades.

"And as for Reno?" Rude hissed, through a clenched jaw.

"Well, he's going to have the death of one or maybe even two Carters on his conscience. I don't think he needs another Carter added onto it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, that's right. She divorced you didn't she? What was her maiden name again?"

Rude could only weep inside. When would this end? How far could his Lord push and prod him before he simply denounced his faith. An eternal heaven was not worth this amount of excruciating pain, even if he only had to endure it for a matter of mere minutes.

"Tseng would never tell you where she is."

"I didn't need Tseng to find her; I did it on my own, thank you very much. Turns out she's not very obedient. She didn't like staying under the radar or being told what to do, which made it unbelievably easy to find her. Is that one of the reasons you fell out of love with her? Or did she become like that _after_ you fell out of love with her?"

Deflecting once more, biting through the pain, he reiterated his question. "When I asked you what you were talking about, I meant, why would Reno have our deaths on his _conscience_?"

Corneo let out a long sigh and shook his head. "Boy, I'd love to tell you _that_ story. But I think I've done enough talking for now. It's time we got this show on the road."

"You're bluffing," he called, running on fumes now, desperate to earn a little more time. "I don't believe any of this. You haven't got Monica and that bomb around Jake will not go off, assuming it _is_ actually a bomb."

"That's an interesting hypothesis – I guess there's only one way to see if it's true. When the light turns on you'll have ten seconds to kill yourself. Goodbye."

And with that Corneo left the room.

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 12:38pm – Train Graveyard, Sector Seven_**

Reno stopped the car, yanked the keys from the ignition and shouldered his door open. Tifa fumbled with her door, only managing to fall halfway out before he had already marched to other side of the car and began to pull her out by her hair. Thrown to the cold earth, she dug her nails into the soil and clawed her way further from Reno as he inched closer towards her, a maddened expression distorting that familiar face. She did not fight back and began to choke on her own tears, blocking out the physical pain but succumbing to the emotional distress. And she was confused. For as long as she had known him he had never even raised his voice to her. He was sweet, clumsy, forgetful, extroverted, funny, happy. He was everything she was not, and everything she wanted to be. He was the epitome of humanity, of normality. But of course, in Tifa's world, normality could never exist, at least not the normality relative to everyone else on the planet. In a strange way this _was _her normality: the people she grew to trust and love only ended up hurting her, hiding behind a facade of compassion or locked within their own heads amongst their inner demons. It had become so natural now that she should have realised he was too good to be true, that he was simply another conduit of evil sent by the Shinra to destroy her life.

"Reno... why are you...?"

"Cut the bullshit!" he yelled, aiming his gun for her heart as he watched her squirm away. "You _know_ I'm not the same man that watched the sunset with you in Kalm or ate a picnic with you under the stars. I'm not the same guy that kissed you and embraced you and made you feel like you were the centre of the fucking universe, although you do a pretty good job of that alone. Oh, and as for the letters and e-mails you've been cherishing, it turns out you've been corresponding with Jeremy from Human Recourses while I was probably out getting drunk off my ass."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want to know everything about your involvement in AVALANCHE, their resurgence, and their plans to destroy the mako reactors."

"You're asking the wrong person. They just use me to hideout in my basement and to cook for them."

Without a shred of hesitation, he fired his gun mere millimetres from her waist, sending a miniature maelstrom of dust and debris into the air. The sheer volume of the bullet sent an icy pulse of fear through her spine, ringing still in her eardrums as the reverberations magnified under the plate soon faded away. Was it really the fear that had immediately tensed every muscle of her body as though they were trying to rip themselves off her bones, or was it simply the volume or the unexpectedness of it? Her life had followed a very tortuous path, fraught with innumerable hazards, but she had soldiered on in the hopes of the path straightening and smoothening for a journey free of turbulence. It had to happen soon; as long as she kept her spirits up and survive these hardships she would be rewarded. Her smile would beam and light up the path, her heart would sing and accompany her when she felt lonely. All she needed was time.

Of course, she thought she had emerged from her period of discontent when she met Reno. She no longer needed the fake smile and no longer needed to overburden her tired heart, for she could share his. He was her ticket out of the amalgam of the world's darkness and sorrow, her knight in shining armour. She _needed_ him no matter how strongly she valued her independence; there were just some things she could not do alone. And now, he was gone. He was a mere spectre, an illusion of salvation. He was the enemy. He was darkness. He was the very evil from which she had been trying to escape.

And she couldn't take it any longer.

"Who _are_ you?" she asked, finding illusory courage in her loss of fear.

"I ask all the questions here, alright?"

"Look, I'm not too happy about the position I've been landed in thanks to my so called _friends_," she sniped, her outward appearance of courage growing markedly, "so I'd gladly answer any of your questions. But I want to know a few things about you and the Turks first."

"This isn't how this fucking works here. I've got the gun: I command the authority!"

"You do have a gun. But if you wanted to shoot me you would have done it by now. And I'm guessing by the time you've eventually got all the information out of me you're just going to shoot me anyway, you heartless bastard. So at least let me die with a little peace of mind."

He chewed on his bottom lip and closed his eyes, his gun still in line with her heart as it trembled inside the grip of his unstable fingers. This, the train graveyard, was his home away from home, the one place he could find his own personal truth within this junkyard of a city. He came here in his element, given the divine task of ending life, of selecting the time, the cause and severity of death. The ashes and charred remains of Shinra's enemies lay hidden amidst the rubble of the abandoned trains, their spirits entombed in a sepulchre of twisted, rusting metal. They were the victims of textbook Turk murder: all identifiable portions of human anatomy destroyed by acid and fire. Be it cruel or vindictive, the job had to be done, and it remained the Turk's responsibility to oversee it. _All of it_. They had to watch the body disintegrate, to smell the putrid combination of acid and dead flesh, to taste the gasoline in the back of their throats as they splashed it liberally over the carcasses and inhale their victims' souls as they floated away with plumes of black smoke. It was not an easy job, but he took pride in it. He took pride in his sangfroid where others would vomit or feel disgusted, in his power over human life where others would be beaten by empathy.

But where was the pride now?

"There are other ways of making you talk, y'know."

"That's true. But I've known you, or a semblance of your character, for about a month now and I know that you are a man of efficiency. If there's any way you prefer, it's the easy way."

"You just asked me who I was a moment ago, and now you're acting as though have me all figured out?"

"Sort of, yeah. I mean, there are certain traits people can mask when they are pretending to be someone they are not. The obvious external things. But deep down inside I know who you are. I don't know why you are the way you are, but that's neither here nor there."

"It's funny how you didn't know I was a sociopath before I had to spell out for you with this gun."

"I'm not talking about your dark side. I'm talking about the goodness in you, the person that would have existed had you not joined the Shinra. I saw the things you could not hide, that nobody would be able to hide. That's the man I fell in love with."

He pondered for a moment, unable to find any scathing witticism to put her down. His mind was far too frazzled for that.

"So, what now?" he eventually enquired.

"Just ask yourself if you want to do this the easy way or the hard way, and when I say _the easy way_," she elucidated, slowly taking to her feet, watching as the gun rose with her, "I don't mean the way that will take less time. I mean, you could torture me and I'd reach my breaking point. I'm only human. But so are you. So, when I say _the easy way_, I mean the way that won't mentally disturb you for the rest of you pathetic little life."

She was taking a serious gamble here. She couldn't even be sure that a modicum of the affection he had shown her over the past month had been genuine. But she wanted it to be, for his sake and for hers. After all, maybe he _was_ the light that would bring her out of darkness, the light tainted and warped by the malevolence of President Shinra and his wicked empire.

He lowered the gun. She had crushed his veil of dominance as easily as if she had crushed his genitals in the palm of her hand. It was a useless prop now, providing him with nothing more than a medium to visualise his fear; his fear of losing what made him special, his fear of losing that absence of human feeling upon ending human life, his fear of losing her forever.

"My name _is_ Reno. I don't like using aliases."

_Success_!

"Why not?"

"Because I know that if there is anybody that gets close enough to actually discover my name, they will end up dead no matter what I do."

"And do all of these people have their blood on your hands?"

"Not all of them," he spoke, his volume severely muted. "Well, not physically. But I attract as much death and destruction as I inflict."

"Is that why you're so afraid of getting close to people?"

Her voice lingered in his mind like an autumnal fog, stimulating memories of her naked body, the warmth and softness of her skin, her fragrance, the taste of her lips. It was overpowering, piling emotional weight on a man already knee deep in quicksand.

"This is fucking stupid," he announced, lifting his gun up once more, this time aiming at her head. "I get enough of this shit from the company shrink; I don't need any more from you. We're not here to talk about me, we're here to talk about AVALANCHE."

She shuddered at the sight of his willingness – his desire – to live in such pitiful ignorance. Why was he so scared of the truth?

"How well do you know Rude Carter?" she asked, astonishing even herself at her tongue's ability to overpower her brain.

Just as she had spoken before thinking, he reacted before thinking. He lunged forward and struck the side of her jaw with the butt of his gun, sending her to the floor as though she were a marionette that had had her strings cut. Blood oozed from her gums and onto the ground through the corner of her mouth, staining her teeth with the rouge of combat. Perhaps she deserved that: perhaps he had overreacted. Either way it answered her question.

The harsh, bitter taste danced over her tongue as she slowly lifted her chin, her eyes following his lanky legs, up his dishevelled shirt, past his shoulders that hunched as though they were supporting the weight of the plate above him, and finally his harsh, bitter expression, an example of the beautiful symmetry they shared mixed with the inescapable pain and mistrust.

He still hadn't stopped shaking. In fact he'd gotten worse. He was alone in the world, and it was all her fault. She had stolen Rude from him, _murdered_ him with enough sangfroid to put even himself to shame. While he never directly opened up to Rude he could still unleash a certain amount of his emotional baggage upon him in his own way, simply because Rude never offered him advice on how to absolve himself. He was simply there to listen to him, to nod along with him and tell him exactly what he wanted to hear: nothing at all. Rude did not judge him, nor did he care about his trivialities. He was just there to absorb Reno's voice and radiate back an intangible aura that defied solitude. He was the yin to his yang.

And then, of course, Tifa had stolen herself from him, too.

Up until now he had not dared to follow the line of interrogation involving the true origin of his anger because he knew that he had had a large part to play in his best friend's demise. But, now that she had brought the topic to his attention, he had no other choice. She had pushed him across the line over from the grey area that had blurred the margins of love and hate, however, although the prospect of this newfound clarity of mind sounded appealing, the sight of fear and helplessness in her eyes, the sight of which would usually spur him on, now only left him feeling a hollow sense of guilt. Fully aware that she was a master of martial arts, he even began to move closer to her, prompting her to knock the gun out of his hand and prove she had been lying to him all this time. He just needed an excuse. Any excuse.

"How well do _you _know Rude Carter?" he eventually asked, the long caesura damaging the credibility of his dominance even more.

It was a good question. She had immersed herself in her own problems and self-pity in Rude's company for so long that she had ignored most of his. Of all the images and memories she could recollect, his eyes stood out in her mind the most, the one memory from that fateful day in her bar that had haunted her to this very minute. She felt almost privileged to see those hazel irises behind his protective barrier, to see his tears, his raw emotions laid bare before her, endowing her with an undeserved impression of trust. And then there was the memory of his self sacrifice in Corneo's mansion. She had only looked back for a microsecond, but it was enough to catch a glimpse of him writhing on the floor, subjected to the perils of electricity. He could have escaped, but he chose to distract the majority of the guards. He chose to save her, even though she had done nothing to deserve such chivalry.

She wiped a tiny rivulet of blood off her chin with the back of her hand and studied the scarlet patterns that developed under her knuckles.

_Yes, I definitely deserved this_.

"I know he's a Turk. In fact, I've known for a long time."

"How long?" Reno asked, his voice beginning to tremble with the rest of his body.

"Does it matter?"

"He was my best friend, of course it fucking matters!"

He _was_ his best friend? Tifa could only assume this meant she had had something to do with this termination of friendship between the two Turks. Perhaps that was why he was so angry.

"I dunno. Around two weeks. Pretty much the day I met him. I bumped into him on the street; we got to talking; we had a cup of coffee. Just as he was leaving my friend recognised him. He'd been snooping around our basement planting cameras to spy on us."

Reno grimaced. Had he not forced Rude to plant those wires this entire mission would not have gone awry and his partner would still be alive. This was exactly why he did not want to probe further into this issue.

"What else do you know about him?"

"I don't see what–"

"Just answer the question!"

There was just one more thing she could remember about Rude under such stressful circumstances, but she hesitated to utter it. She had known of Reno's rational jealousy over this other man, and still had not figured out what had stimulated this outburst. She had failed Jake once already and, given another chance, she would not fail him again.

"Nothing... I don't know anything else."

Reno was not expecting that. He almost commended her silence.

"That doesn't make any sense. You must have known him pretty intimately to have called his name out when you were fucking me."

"Why do you keep going on about that? You never even loved me..."

"Yes I did!"

There it was. The question he had been asking for so long had finally been answered thanks to an assiduous subconscious had been digesting constant streams of information and latent emotions until the truth finally erupted forth like lava from a volcano. And, considering what she had done, he could only assume that this was a universal truth akin to gravity or the rotation of the earth around the sun, and that neither of them could do nothing to alter it.

It was the single scariest and most beautiful thought of his life.

Eventually, Reno ended the inevitable silence by throwing his gun through the passenger window of a derailed train, savouring the satisfying sounds of metal clashing against glass and the wonderful visuals of the opaque shards raining over the twisted, uprooted train-tracks. He wandered over to the train, brushing away the larger glass shards with his foot, before leaning against it, sliding down to the ground and releasing a heavy sigh of defeat.

He had dreamed of professing his love for her for too long, and in each scenario he found that once he had done so the hardest part would be over. Then again, in his dreams Tifa would not have the murder of his best friend and a fat lip to deal with first. In reality, _this_ was the hardest part: the quiet, the body language, the awkward glances, and the strenuous task of trying to read one another's thoughts.

"Let me tell you about Rude," Reno said. His voice was much softer and steadier now as he fixed his gaze straight ahead on the turnstiles laden with cobwebs across the other platform. "He was a good man. He deserved a better life, a life with his family, with his friends. But like all Turks, like all SOLDIERS, like any single person that gets infected by Shinra Incorporated, he became a slave to his job – he became a different man. You see, we're taught to expel all emotion. In fact we're brainwashed to trust nobody but ourselves, our partners and Mr. Shinra. They excavate the life within our hearts and leave us as these hollow automatons. Quite frankly, it makes me sick to my stomach."

"So why don't you just quit?"

"I've wanted to for a long time, believe me. But leaving the Turks is not as simple as handing in your letter of resignation and expecting your gold watch in the mail. I mean you can't throw a freshwater fish into the ocean and just expect it to make do. I wouldn't know how to function in the real world. I can only dread the thought of developing a sense of empathy or a conscience. The things I've done... some of them are too unbearable to even mention. The thought of living with that over my head scares me more than anything in this world. That's why I cherish Shinra's grasp over my soul. I cherish it as much as I hate it." He found the courage to look at her. She met his gaze and shared his yo-yoing affection. "Besides, the Shinra wouldn't be very happy if I did find the courage to leave them. They don't usually give us much information, but I know just enough to be a liability. They'd hunt me down and everyone I loved from now until infinity. In fact, many of my past missions have involved _silencing r_enegade Turks, people I knew intimately, people I once regarded as my family."

"Oh... I-I'm sorry."

It was a pathetic response, but the best she could muster.

He faced her once more, this time really exploring her features properly, reading her like an engrossing novel.

"I'm sorry I hit you," he apologised, now looking up to the concrete heavens above. He really was sorry. Having pained Rude and Jake simply to prolong his own happiness, a happiness that could never exist in light of the consequences, he could not be angry at Tifa for protecting herself or her ideals. And maybe she had done Rude a favour. He would be at peace now, free of guilt, of shame, of pain, of disgrace. "I shouldn't have blamed you for what happened," he continued. "I shouldn't have gotten so angry... I mean, I know I'd probably do the same thing if I was in your position and I can't be so hypocritical, especially seeing as though this is all my fucking fault. I... I'm just a little upset and confused, and this will take me a long time to... Are you OK?" he asked, returning his gaze to her pain-stricken expression.

She gritted her teeth and very laboriously sat upright. "No, it's my foot. It really hurts."

He dusted himself off before he pushed himself off the ground and rushed to her side. "We need to get you to a hospital. C'mon, I'll carry you to the car."

"Thanks," she replied, enjoying the warmth of his embrace for as long as it would last. "I have to ask you, though. Why did you get so angry when I asked you about Rude?"

"That's not funny," he responded bitterly.

"Seriously, I don't understand what happened. And what were you talking about just then about blaming me for what happened and stuff?"

He halted in his tracks, waiting for her to explain her crudity. Receiving nothing, he decided to elaborate. After all, he had experienced many visual hallucinations in that chamber. Her confession may have simply been a figment of his imagination, too.

"Back in Corneo's mansion, I heard you talking on your phone. You said you'd killed Rude."

Why couldn't the repercussions of her actions become clear to her before she opened her big mouth and said something stupid? Then again, how could she ever expect Reno, or anyone for that matter, to be with her in that dark chamber?

"I can't believe I said that," she mumbled, her voice muffled as she buried her face in her palms. "Oh, God. I didn't really mean what I said. Well I didn't mean it literally, anyway. He got caught by Corneo's men. He was protecting me; he stayed back and took the full brunt of their attack so that I had enough time to escape. Whatever happened to him after that would have been my fault. Plus I was upset and confused just like you are now, and I..."

"So, you're saying he's still alive?"

She could feel the enthusiasm in his voice vibrating through her body, borne of something she could only aspire to achieve: redemption.

"I don't know... maybe."

She bore the ensuing silence for as long as she could take while he stood in his vegetative state deciding where his priorities lay. Of course, he may have already made up his mind, spending this time developing an adequate reason why he should leave her to fend for herself while he went off to fight a lost cause. She wouldn't hold it over him if the latter was the case. After all, she too knew of the immense powers of guilt.

"You should go and help him," she eventually uttered, accepting the responsibility of making this difficult decision for him.

"Are you sure?"

"I'll be fine," she said behind a false smile. The agony radiating from her foot would not allow her to keep it up for very long, but it was enough to persuade Reno.

He gently placed her back in the dirt – _Back where I belong_ – and rummaged through his pockets for his cell phone.

"Call an ambulance," he said, placing the phone in her palm. "They should be here within fifteen minutes."

Without as much as a goodbye he scuttled off, halting only at the sound of her frayed voice begging for his attention. He turned and slowly walked back to her side, finding a new sense of patience.

"Before you go," she whispered, utilising a low volume to beckon him closer. "After all of this is over, what's going to happen... with us?"

"I think you know the answer to that, Tifa."

"Just say it. I want to hear it from your lips."

"Don't make this any harder than it has to..."

"Five minutes ago you were willing to kill me. Then you were willing to cradle me in your arms even after you thought I had murdered your best friend. I just want to be sure of what to expect. I want to know whether you're going to come back and kill me in my sleep or come back and let me fall in love with you all over again."

His smile was discreet, but it was enough of an answer for Tifa.

"My worries are pointless aren't they?" she asked, feeling humiliated for thinking this dysfunctional relationship had the slightest chance of succeeding. "I'm never going to see you again."

"We're all going to be different people by tomorrow morning. A lot will change. But I will still be a Turk; I will still be the enemy."

"You'll still be a coward," she sniped.

He absorbed the insult with even more patience, a first for him, and probably a last, too.

"Yes. I am a coward. I want to quit and live a normal life, but I'm too scared. I'm scared of what they'll do to me... of what they'll do to you."

"I can look after myself, thank you very much."

He sighed heavily; his patience couldn't last forever.

"I want you to leave this city. Tomorrow I'll make arrangements for you to get out of this dump undetected where you can board a plane from Junon to Nibelheim. I'm not going to force you to go; the best I can do is give you the opportunity and the incentive."

"The _incentive_?"

"When I said I was the enemy, I wasn't kidding. Thanks to the Shinra's soul-numbing properties I'll lose all of... _this_: this emotion, this guilt, this sadness, this confusion, this anger. I'll be the hollow shell of a man you met at midnight last month. And you do not want to meet that person, I promise you."

"Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means the next time I see you, I'll be willing to hold a gun to your face again, but I won't hesitate to shoot."

She froze in disgust. Her eyes burnt, her heart pounded against her chest, her blood curdled.

Before she could react, or simply think of a reaction, he leaned closer to her, his cold, vampiric lips brushing against her ear as she remained as immobile as stone.

"I'm sorry...for everything."

Fearing her reprisal, he stole a quick kiss, a mere peck on her cheek to taste her skin and feel her warmth before all would be forgotten, before the remnants of his soul would surely be vacuumed from his body by his employers. It was cowardly, but he couldn't wait for it all to be over, to return to that virtual state of existence in which his body would become an avatar, a mere vessel that encased an empty mind. He didn't want this pain to consume him. He didn't want to think about her anymore, for her sake more than his own. He just wanted everything to return to normal.

Of course, there was another more pressing engagement to overcome, for this concept of _love_ he had experienced was luckily ephemeral and could easily be erased. He had only known Tifa for a month, after all, and had only understood his love of her for a matter of minutes. But his friendship with Rude had spanned a decade. If he truly wanted to return to his distorted emotional equilibrium, he would have to fix this once and for all, and that would mean enlisting the help of everyone he could find. And that meant _everyone_.

Tifa thawed from her frozen state and slowly craned her neck to the side, watching Reno's car skid off and leave a plume of dust in its wake. The phone in her hand sapped all the warmth from it, numbing it slowly until her pounding heart forced hot blood through her fingers. She looked at the small device, emblazoned with Shinra's logo, and smashed it against the floor in rage. She didn't need an ambulance right now; the pain in her foot would become an adequate distraction for her to ignore her broken heart.

With a groan, she lifted herself off the ground and began the long limp to the nearest hospital. She would have to pass through the Sector Seven train station, the busiest of them all bar the stop at Wall Market in Sector Six. Sector Seven was famous for its bars and restaurants, attracting thousands during the lunch time rush. She would have to face them all, to carve her way through the throngs of people, masking the tears of agony radiating from her foot and elsewhere.

She supported her frame on the side of a disused train, pulling herself along as she hopped on one leg. Following the lengthy body, she stopped at the driver's cabin. The same Shinra logo emblazoned on Reno's phone was plastered over the side of the front cabin. The sight of it nearly made her faint as it flashed vertiginous memories of her past before her eyes: her father's death, the destruction of her hometown, the slow death of the planet, the slashing of her heartstrings. It was all too much to take.

She bent down, resting her palms against her knees as she inhaled as much air as she could. As soon as her head stopped spinning, she carried on, eventually making her way through to the more populated region of the train station. She ignored the staring strangers and let her throbbing foot do its worst. It would all be over soon. Even if she could survive the next month without drinking a drop of alcohol, the world as she knew it would soon come to an end thanks to the Shinra Electric Power Company.

Perhaps she should have just gone along with Barret and the others when they had devised their plan to blow up the reactors. At first she could not bear to think of the loss of life that would ensue from such extreme action, but the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. She had only been here for a few years and was already willing to kill herself to put an end to Shinra Inc. How would the native citizens feel, those living under the plate of oppression for an entire lifetime? Wouldn't they be willing to sacrifice themselves for the good of the planet?

She eventually found the courage to look around her at the sea of potential sacrificial lambs. They looked neither happy nor sad, living in an emotional gray zone – much like Reno. They were hollow and insignificant and spiritually dead. They were not living, simply existing.

The sight of them simply added to her heartbreak. But they were not the only people destroyed by the Shinra that would strengthen her resolve. There was one more person that held more gravity than all of them combined.

His name was Cloud.

* * *

**A/N**

One more chapter to go. I know I have said this before, but back then I only had a vague idea of where I was going with this story and the depth into which I would go. Now I know exactly where this is going.

This chapter has not been beta read. I will fix any issues later when I have the strength.


	27. Vultures

**27**

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 2:23pm – Room 101, Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

Jake pushed himself farther into his corner, contorting his body to match the profile of the adjoining walls, looking for a shadow to hide in, for a small recess in space that he could crawl into and watch existence pass by from a safe distance. His fear was almost tangible, clawing its way through his gut, banging against the walls of his stomach like a wild beast in his body, at first playfully caprioling and rolling around, then scurrying around in growing agitation, searching for freedom. If only he knew how to release his fear and give it the freedom it desired. Many people could do so by crying or shouting or screaming until their throats were hoarse, but of course, he was no longer blessed with such a luxury.

Even so, he could not help but stare at his father, the source of agitation for the fear in his gut, the source of the fear itself. He had not grown any more courageous over the last ten minutes, but he could feel an ominous force persuading him to look into the very moment that would define his future. Perhaps it was the gun in his father's hand. Perhaps it was the solitary bullet. Either way, he could do nothing more than thank his corpulent captor for throwing him into the lion's den like this. He needed to resolve this issue with his father once and for all, for the sake of his sanity and for the sake of his mother's and his own happiness. After all, if he could get through this, if he could watch his father end his life, he would lose that source of fear that wreaked havoc in his stomach and paralyzed his vocal chords. He would be able to tell his mother how much he loved her, not simply because he could, but because he _wanted_ to.

He knew the sight of his father committing suicide would be equally disturbing, but if it meant there was even the slightest chance of returning to a blissful state of normality then he would have to endure it. As much as he wanted to simply close his eyes, bury his head in his arms and wait for the sound of that thunderous pop of gunfire and that splattering of human matter against the wall, he knew it would never be enough. He needed to see this. Living without speech, he had grown to hate listening to others selfishly unload their problems onto him. This hatred soon evolved to a state of abhorrence upon his discovery of his inferiority to animals that could at least bleat and whine and speak in their meaningless parlances. The evolution continued further upon his realisation that the sounds he could make – clapping his hands, stomping his feet, and so on – were on par with soulless, inanimate objects. He could only express distress in the same way a motor vehicle's engine would do so, through non-sentient sounds and physical appearances of infirmity. Through this hatred, he had grown to distrust sound, to use it only when his sight was compromised.

But there was more to it than that. Subconsciously, he wanted to see this, to savour every last drop of blood, every last drop of justice. He had endured years of mental agony, yet the man that had caused it all had never been there to reimburse the years of youth and innocence he had stolen. Jake had caught Rude watching him through the corners of his eyes from time to time, usually when he was playing in the school yard, and at first believed that his mind was playing tricks on him, that the memories were manifesting themselves as nightmarish hallucinations. But he soon learned to trust his vision, as he was running short of things to remain faithful to, and discovered that his father had indeed been discreetly watching him from a distance.

He soon grew to understand that Rude was probably finding it difficult to let go, maintaining a desire to reconcile with his son. But basic desire was not enough: _wanting _something to happen never outweighed _needing_ something to happen. It seemed to Jake that his father could quell, or at least temporarily quell, all of the guilt that festered within his heart like a disease by taking a few inconsequential hours out of _work_ to simply look at him through a chain link fence with a store-bought expression of affection and the notion that his Lord and Saviour would consider this action to be his penitence. It also dawned on him that his father wanted Jake to see him like this. Doing enough research on Turks to fill a textbook, Jake knew they were masters of espionage and could become invisible to people mere metres away. It was all just an act, an outward expression of false love. He didn't care enough to approach him or his mother seeking forgiveness.

Jake had curled his body into a tight ball that soon began to loosen upon a new realisation.

Yes, he had approached him once. He had come to their makeshift home in the slums and slowly approached him as he was playing by himself on the concrete steps. The sounds of footsteps caught his attention first, but at the time he was still boycotting that cardinal sense, and so he looked up to see those shades, those lenses as dark as night, hiding eyes that were even darker. And the fear had beaten his desire to listen to his father's pleas for forgiveness. He had unwittingly broken his rule of _need_ trumping _want_. He did not want his father's love or attention. He did not want his father. He did not want to overcome his fear. And that made him equally as cowardly.

Did he really want to see this? Did he really want to hear his father's croaky voice persuading his son to close his eyes and cover his ears? Although he was still waiting for that. Since Corneo had left, Rude had done nothing but look at the light bulb under the camera, waiting for it to turn red.

Rude began to sweat. He could feel his son staring him down from the other side of the room, and it was killing him. He did not want to know why Jake had suddenly found the courage to look at him, and he did not want to see the emotions swimming through his eyes, because he did not want his son to make this decision for him. Many external observers would argue that there was no decision to make, that he should simply sacrifice himself to save his son, as if self-sacrifice was that easy. But none of those people would ever be placed in this situation, so their opinions were not valid.

Of course it was a decision. Rude had known Corneo's type for years. They were cowards that thrived on the fear of their subjects, but never liked to get their hands dirty in the process. If he were to take a gamble right now, he would say Corneo was simply bluffing about detonating a bomb within his residence if he failed to comply or about setting Jake free if he did. Truth be told, it was a fifty-fifty shot, and in any other circumstance he would have simply let the madman play out his little game and ignore his empty threats. But there was much more riding on this gamble. He could play dice with his own life, but not with Jake's.

Hearing a beep, both of the prisoners caught one another glancing at the bulb that had now switched on, piercing them with a glint of ruby light. The game was on.

Corneo began the countdown from a safe distance, his voice distorted to a tinny rasp over the tannoy.

**Ten**

Rude looked up, trying to look through the freshly plastered ceiling and directly at God. He had asked for this, prayed for it to happen. God had heeded his pleas to take his life and spare his son's, but the realisation of this came draped in a bitter sense of irony, forcing him to wince as though he had been flagellated by an angry slave driver. Of all the prayers he had offered for his Lord, of all the mercy he had requested in return for infinite gratitude, _this_ was the one prayer God had decided to answer.

Then again, hidden beneath many layers of interpretation and subtext, Rude also thought his Lord may not have been answering his prayers at all. Perhaps this was all a test akin to the Binding of Isaac, a test to see if he had the courage and the moral fibre required to sacrifice his own life in order for God to absolve him of his sins. Or perhaps God was as vindictive as Reno had always professed, shining the accusatory light on his cowardice, his lack of morality, his lack of faith, and his lack of fatherly love before He would laugh in his face and throw him into the crypts of hell for eternity. He had always claimed that the Shinra and the Turks simply acted as a hood over his soul, and that if you lifted up the heavy hood you would see him for who he truly was; a good person that feared and revered God. He always thought that deep down inside, if God looked hard enough, he would see the dim flame of probity still glowing, battling to survive against the vicious winds of evil.

And he always – _always_ – thought that he was a good father.

**Nine**

Jake suddenly felt a pang of guilt rush through his spine. It was cold and scary, but signified that there were still a few dregs of emotion left within him, that he wasn't as inhuman as his father – he bit his tongue before he could finish his contradictory thought. He felt guilty for blaming his father for not doing as much as he could to restore their relationship, but still found it hard to feign sympathy for him.

He looked deeper into his father's shades, his eyes growing more accustomed to the darkness, and admitted to himself that he was utterly confused. How could he feel guilt without sympathy? Perhaps it wasn't guilt at all: it may have been shame. Yes, that sounded right. He felt shame for seeking pleasure in the prospective sight of his father's grisly death, and for later blaming his father's evil genetics for such shameful behaviour. After all, would he be destined to blame his late father for every potential sinful thought that would crop into his head or every sinful action that he would commit, assuming he would outlive his father, of course.

**Eight**

Realising he would find no answers by turning to God, Rude decided to brave it out and turn to his son instead. His old cadet trainers had often told him when pushing him into battlefields with beasts twice his size that they were more frightened of him than he was of them. At the time he had scoffed at his trainers, believing such an idea to be ludicrous, but now he could understand how size did not mean everything in a battle of intimidation. Jake's venomous glare of mistrust was evidence for this, doing little to make this process any easier.

He did not learn anything more from Jake than he could have deduced by himself. Why would his son want to play Corneo's bluff when his odds of survival would be vastly greater if his father would simply man up and shoot himself in the head?

After striking God and Jake off the list of responsibility, he decided to search for another provider of answers. Unfortunately for him, the only other person or object in the room that held such authority was the gun.

**Seven**

Jake shuddered at the count of seven. It was on this count that he realised he no longer wanted to witness this suicide to save his own soul without once more tainting the one primary sense he still trusted, especially after his father had looked at him searchingly, pathetically pleading with him to forgive him whilst he still had the time to be forgiven. He was thankful that his father had not performed the act and had given him enough time to bury his head in his arms. But it was also on this count that he felt the first spike of fear that gripped his throat and tried to use the momentum of his heartbeat to push his heart out of his chest. It was upon this count that his ears had not detected that gravelly sound of Rude Carter's voice telling him to close his eyes and his ears and understand that he was still loved dearly by his parents. It was upon this count that he realised his father was submerged in a dark sea of doubt.

And it was upon this count that he realised he might actually die in six more seconds.

**Six**

Rude began to shudder as he looked at the gun, still locked tightly in his hand that rested by his waist. Just like God, just like his son, the gun was reticent and unwilling to help through this mental anguish. His was the only voice that held any authority; his was the only mind capable of finding the best solution to this problem. The odds didn't matter anymore: he had to do this for his son. And before he could even think about lifting the gun to his temple, he would have to know that he was at least going to die a hero in the eyes of his son.

Now that he had finally determined his fate, the only remaining problem involved his last words to his precious child.

**Five**

Another second had passed. They were getting faster and faster, almost as though the prospect of death was compressing time. He lifted his head from his lap, tears streaming down his cheeks, and tried to scream from the silent prison of his mind. He wanted to tell his father that he loved him, even if he didn't really mean it, because he no longer cared about morality or ethics or hypocrisy anymore. He just did not want to die.

**Four**

Time was running out. There was no way he could generate a meaningful, coherent, genuine apology for his son in four seconds. After all, Jake did not need an apology; he needed a saviour willing to die with a dirty conscience.

So, with his hands still trembling, he lifted the gun to his temple.

**Three**

The sight of Rude's impending self-sacrifice was incentive enough for Jake's mind to finally release him from its silent prison. With his remaining energy, he puckered his lips, readied his weak tongue, and inhaled the foul smelling air.

"I love you, dad."

**Two**

The words hit him harder than any bullet ever could. He choked on his own tears, his trigger finger frozen solid.

**One**

With their time up, they both squeezed their eyes shut and drew a sharp breath, anticipating the cold scythe of Death.

**_Wednesday, October 27th, 10:00am – Midgar Memorial Gardens, Upper Plate_**

The late October rain was gentle and left a sweet scent in the air. Tifa could barely feel the water failing over her head as she stepped out of the cab and handed a few crumpled bills from her back pocket to the driver. Both of her hands were occupied by the crutches that supported her body, so she had been forced to leave her umbrella on her bed back in the hospital. She knew it would not remain there for very long, and that the bed itself might find a new occupant in her absence, but her memory of it was fond enough to give her confidence in her ability to describe it to the nurse manning the lost-and-found box. It was her mother's, black and slender, perfect for the more elegant and less contemporary ladies of the late sixties, and was the only maternal memento she still owned, besides the old tin of _Mayfair's _rouge that wasn't even fashionable back in her mother's time.

She didn't want to leave it behind, almost as much as she didn't want to leave Cloud's bedside, but she had to come here and pay her respects. Besides, Cloud had still not regained consciousness. The doctor had said he was showing signs of improvement though, and that if he kept up at this rate he would be able to leave within a week or so. Perhaps he would give her a nice surprise when she got back, something to look forward to on the long journey back to the slums. She could picture him slowly opening his eyes, rolling his head towards her, and smiling as though he had simply woken from a deep sleep. He had rarely smiled as a child, but when he did it gave Tifa such a warm feeling.

She still couldn't believe she had found him in the Midgar slums of all places, almost relenting to believe her eyes. The last time she had seen him, he'd told her he would come back to her as a SOLDIER: First Class, as a four star general, as a protector of people and the planet. Instead he had come back to her as a mess, spouting incoherencies in a drunkard's language, lying in a pool of putrid vomit. She was inclined to believe he had disgraced himself, that he was drinking himself to death, polluting his body with heroin, or cocaine, or mako after being dishonourably discharged from the military. She could only assume the last glint of hope in her life, her last hope for humanity, was staring her in the face, probably unable to recognise himself, let alone her. He represented the final straw that would sit atop her back, along with the rest of the world's burdens, and break it in one fell swoop.

But before she could do anything drastic, she had noticed the faint glow in his eyes, a gentle hum of aqua-marine that escaped his irides, and she understood his plight. It took more than a few hits of mako for a person's eyes to glow like this. It wouldn't even be possible if he had been snorting the stuff every day since he had left her. It took years of exposure – years of immersion in liquid mako, day in day out, twenty-four-seven – for a person's eyes to glow like this. She had seen it only once before when she was still a mere child charging into the Nibelheimian reactor in search of her father's murderer. She had seen the soldiers floating in pods of green fluid. She had seen what they had become: beasts with eyes glowing like demons.

And it was at that very point when a very different straw broke her back. It was Shinra's straw.

She had shown infinite patience with the company that had worn away her soul like ocean waves crashing against rocks. But now there was nothing to hold her back. The guilt was dead. The sympathy was dead.

The old Tifa Lockhart was dead.

She leaned heavily against her crutches, being careful to keep the cast around her foot away from any mud, and crossed the street over to the wrought iron fence surrounding the garden, a display of spiralling spears of metal painted a glossy black. The leaves of the hedge lining the fence shimmered as the rainwater gently spritzed their surfaces. She was just tall enough to see over the wet leaves at the beautiful serenity encapsulated within the memorial gardens, and allowed a wry smile to touch her lips. It was almost funny to visualise a phrase she heard many times by her regulars: you're better off dead in this city. Upstairs, downstairs – it didn't matter. Midgar was hell on earth.

A small group of mourners had already accumulated around the grave by the time she had reached the main entrance. She had missed the eulogies: the diggers were already shovelling the dirt back into the earth.

The sky was completely blotted by thick, grey clouds that began to drop heavier globules of water with a greater force.

Reno was hunching as he always did, kicking damp lumps of earth around, probably jonesing for a cigarette. She had never seen him wear a pressed shirt and tie before. He looked good in them.

She felt around her pocket and found the security pass that had allowed her to travel up to the plate, bypassing the railway's new security system. It was a small laminated card similar to a driver's licence with a computerised chip embedded within. She had found it last night on her bed after she had returned from the bathroom, neatly placed on top of her pillow beside a note. She hadn't seen anyone enter or leave the room, and could see nothing out of the ordinary, except for the gossamer curtains that began to dance through the mouth of the recently opened window.

After closing the window and returning to her bed, she had unfolded the note and immediately recognised the handwriting. The note was short, just a few lines of ink that would soon mix with her tears, transforming the calligraphy into a mini Rorschach test.

Reno knelt by the grave. She knew he had seen her, but she dared not move from her safe perch by the gate.

The rain grew stronger, soaking her clothes and her bandages. With a tear warming her cold cheek, she silently said goodbye to another innocent victim of Shinra Inc. However, she would not sit idly by any longer. After hours of debating with her own mind, she had plucked up the courage to pick up the phone and make that fateful phone call.

She was ready to rejoin the team.

AVALANCHE was ready to seek justice.

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 2:26pm – Room 101, Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

Rude could feel the gun floating away, gently nudging his fingers to comply with the orders of a higher being. He felt weightless, free of stress, free of anxiety.

Fortunately for Corneo, it only took a punch to the gut to clear the mental block caused by the harrowing notion of indirect filicide. Rude soon fell to the floor in agony as a steel-capped boot struck his testicles, a cheap blow to safely yank the gun from his fingers. He crawled on all fours by the Don's feet, just as far as his chain would allow him, becoming the subservient dog in this little game, lacking the willpower to survive. For a moment he had almost been happy. He'd wanted it to be all over, for Corneo to propel him and his son into another dimension of comfort and bliss away from their past and the foul stench of rotting flesh.

"Hmph," Corneo grunted, accepting the unused gun from his subordinate with disgust, holding it at an arm's length as though it was contaminated with some shameful disease. "You're a fucking pussy, Rude. I always knew you were. Makes all of this seem redundant now, doesn't it?"

"I... knew you were... bluffing," he whispered, soon repeating himself in a louder tone for Jake's benefit. He hadn't forgotten him; he just didn't want to think about him. He didn't want Jake to take the love away, the love he had only momentarily earned – _earned_?

Truth be told, the only thing he had earned from this ordeal was an explanation. His Lord's test had been graded and handed back to him with a list of all his faults, striking him like an epiphany.

Most epiphanies were wonderful insights that further benefited mankind in fields of medicine or science or philosophy. They were magnificent thoughts, almost poetic in nature. But his was contrastingly dark and ugly, rising to the surface of his atrophied mind like bubbles from filthy bog-water. It tethered him to the ground, weighing him down so he could not even find the strength to stand up.

He had pleaded for an answer as soon as Corneo began the countdown. From ten seconds to one, he needed to know why he could not pull the trigger, even with his beautiful baby boy staring at him with his big brown eyes. It turned out the answer was simple. Brusque. Hideous. Despicable. Cold. Disgusting. There weren't enough words to accurately describe it.

_I don't love him_.

_I don't love my son._

"You called my bluff?" Corneo chortled. "Well, if that is the case, I have to commend your skills of perception... or your complete disregard for your son's life."

Rude ignored him, lost in his own thoughts as he stared at the ground spattered with varying shades of dry blood. He tried to justify it as best as he could, explaining his intellections to a sceptical version of himself: He hardly knew the child, and was that really his fault? He hadn't meant for Jake to find him on the job, implementing his one and only God given talent for murder. He had tried to make amends for his actions, but both Jake and Monica had made it clear enough that they did not need him, that they feared him. Even when Jake could still bear to call him 'father', he still had not known the child, always too caught up with his work, trying to claw his way up the ladder. He didn't want to ignore his son, but detaching himself from fatherhood made his job easier, it made killing kids easier. It sounded disgusting, but he only did it for Jake. He was willing to get his hands bloody so Jake wouldn't have to.

Insulted by Rude's ignorance, Corneo booted him in the stomach, forcing him to fall flat on his face, chipping the left lens of his shades.

"Wake up, Rude. It's over," Corneo boomed, nudging the Turk's lifeless body with his foot. "You killed him. Your son's dead. Are you happy?"

Rude groaned as he lifted his head off the ground, finding his son rocking back and forth in the corner, his eyes watering, still locked onto those of his father.

Corneo followed his line of sight and let out a deep sigh. He shook his head, almost as disappointed as Rude, before firing the solitary bullet into Jake's skull, watching as the boy slumped into an awkward position upon expiration, the clean bullet hole in the centre of his forehead leaking a pool of innocent blood.

There was no anger.

There was no pain.

There was nothing.

Nothing but a steadily growing sense of emptiness coursing through Rude's body, hollowing him out, exhuming his cold, twisted soul from his body. His very essence collected through his arms, tingling his skin as it crawled through to his hands, his fingers, before expelling itself and leaving an insubstantial shell of a man behind. He felt cold. He felt alone.

He felt...

He felt _nothing_.

Corneo still had not lowered his arm since firing the gun. He took no pleasure in his actions, especially when there was no pleasure to take. This was business, as everything was. This had to be done.

He collected his breath before turning back to Rude and finding that trademark smirk. It took years of practice to smile in the face of inhumanity. But he did not formulate the rules. He simply played the game.

"I suppose we'll have to do this the easy way," he uttered, a hint of solemnity finding its way in his voice. He clicked his fingers. The action prompted a few of his men to delicately pull Jake's body closer to Rude, placing him on his back an inch from his father's fingertips.

Corneo tutted as Rude stretched his arm, trying to reach at least one hair atop his son's scalp. He could only reach the newly formed puddle of blood: the manifestation of his own blood that now added itself to a growing collection on the concrete floor.

"I didn't really need you to shoot yourself, Rude: I've got Heidegger under my thumb. I guess I just wanted to fuck with your head a little before I killed you." He knelt down beside Rude, his paralysed prisoner. "Just for the record, I would have killed your little runt regardless of whether you shot yourself or not."

**_Wednesday, October 27th, 10:02am – Midgar Memorial Gardens, Upper Plate_**

Reno needed a cigarette.

It wasn't as though he didn't care about Jake. On the contrary, he had done nothing but think about him ever since he had seen those cold, lifeless eyes, and that limp body squeezed by a distraught father.

No, it wasn't that he didn't care; it was that he cared too much. He needed the cigarette to calm his nerves. After all, this was entirely his fault. Not that he would ever bring himself to tell Rude. It would push him over the edge to think his best friend had inadvertently murdered his son to keep his dick satisfied for five more minutes.

Of course, there was always the fear of the guilt that would eat him up inside like a swarm of locusts pullulating within his gut, but he knew it wouldn't last long, that he would lose this itch, this bubbling heat in his stomach, as soon as his employers immersed him in their specialised _Dehumanising_ rooms. Of course, that's what the top brass called them amongst themselves. To the operatives, they just called them _Psyche Cleansing _rooms – much more appealing. The apparatus within said rooms were created by Shinra scientists, unpatented tools, most of which had not even been named.

Needless to say, none of the subjects forced to spend days, if not weeks, in the _Psyche Cleansing_ rooms would ever come out the same. They never spoke of their ordeals, leading many to believe that every agent received different courses of _therapy_. It was a terrifying notion.

In all honesty, he would gladly spend weeks or even months getting his psyche vigorously rinsed if it meant he could walk away from this situation without facing it head on. He wasn't afraid to admit his cowardice, not any more. It was all a matter of fear. He couldn't guess Rude's response, because Rude was far more emotionally complex than he was. He could take a swing at him and knock a few teeth out; he could take it that step further and cave his so called _friend_'s head in with his gargantuan fists; he could grab Reno's gun and shoot him, or shoot himself for that matter.

He did not know.

He did not _want_ to know.

The rain gathered momentum and began to plaster his hair to his forehead. Sweeping his new fringe aside, he moved closer to the grave and pulled a single thornless rose from his jacket pocket.

_I'm sorry, Jake._

_I'm so... I'm..._

What could he say? Did he really think he could clear his conscious with a simple apology?

The diggers began to shovel faster as the sky wept harder and harder until the clumps of damp soil turned into mud, splattering over the tiny coffin; the final insult.

With a sharp sigh, Reno knelt down and threw the rose into the grave. It had come to this: He would forever lock his sins within his heart. If his scepticism in the dogma of his people bore no fruit, then he would surely be judged.

"Until then," he whispered. "Until then..."

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 2:20pm – Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

It was a distinct military sound: Boots clunked together as a troop of soldiers split into two groups, separated by a long gravel driveway, and organised themselves strategically for an efficient hostile takeover. There were no chain-smoking, overzealous doormen to contend with, so they gathered themselves on the manicured front lawn calmly and awaited further orders. They were a bastion against the mafia, against oppression and corruption. The fact that they represented an equally corrupt and oppressive regime did not matter. This was no time to worry about irony.

In actuality, they were simply protecting one of their own. Shinra's empire was a family. To those that offered their support to the company, President Shinra would bestow his blessings and protection upon them. Of course, the word _family_ could not be stretched too far in this analogy, because a sense of hierarchy still existed. Semantics aside, Shinra did not take too kindly to his opponents making anyone in his organisation look foolish. He would do anything he could to maintain his familyhonour_, _and so would every member, as the sentiment lived in all branches of Shinra's platonic family tree.

Had Reno commanded this team alone, this probably would have been a simple rescue mission without any politics even entering the equation. But, unfortunately for him, his leader, Heidegger, had gotten wind of his efforts to rally troops and had dropped everything he was doing at the mention of the name Corneo, insisting that he lead the charge himself. It seemed like an underhanded ploy to cover some shady connection Heidegger had developed with an outsider of the family, but arguing with his employer was beyond Reno's jurisdiction, and so he was obliged to comply with a smile on his face.

Heidegger loosened his jaw and let a cigar fall to the fake grass under his feet, stubbing it out before he walked between the two groups of soldiers. He felt ashamed to breathe the filthy air of the slums and was doing nothing to hide his revulsion. He usually stressed to his underlings that he _never_ came to this ugly netherworld unless he had a _very_ good reason. That _very_ good reason did not involve Rude; that much Reno was sure of. No, he was down here to protect himself and his investments, and to keep his nose clean and out of the spotlight. He was probably dealing with Corneo, trading military hardware and hard cash for information that only those outside the loop – outside the _family _– could obtain away from President Shinra's prying eyes.

None of that mattered to Reno right now. Even so, he could not carry on criticising his boss for his selfish attitude. After all, he was doing this for himself, too.

"Corneo probably has our men in the basement. There are two approach points from two stairwells on either side of the building," Reno spoke, as he positioned himself by the front door, addressing his men. Heidegger was in no mood to worry about a power play, so he left Reno to make his little speech. "Half of Team Alpha comes with me to the right stairwell. Half of Team Bravo goes with Chief Heidegger on the left. The rest of you split up and take the mezzanine and upper floor. Now, Corneo only employs men. Any women and children you see are civilians: You must not harm them. Otherwise – take no prisoners."

Heidegger did not object. It was an interesting reaction – or an interesting lack of a reaction.

After composing himself with a long breath, Reno booted the door down and charged into the building, followed by the twenty-eight soldiers that formed Team Alpha. Team Bravo was quick to follow suit with Heidegger, doing his best to keep up with the far more athletic troopers.

Reno would have preferred to have followed Heidegger, if only to assuage his niggling curiosity regarding his employer's niggling curiosity. But there were far more important things to worry about, and doing this without Heidegger would make his life a lot easier. Frankly, he was glad to see the back of him.

He led his group down a dark stairwell, the carpeted stairs creaking as a dozen pairs of heavy feet collided with them. Stealth was not their main issue: Corneo must have prepared for an assault, regardless of whether he had underestimated Reno or not. He had to have something planned, something waiting for them. So, in this instance, time was more of an issue than anything else. They bounded down the stairs and followed Reno, his memory of the building's layout still fresh. At this rate he would get the upper hand on both Corneo and Heidegger at the same time.

The soldiers behind him cleared every door, giving him the luxury of running ahead unimpeded. They did not find anybody in any of the rooms, and did not encounter anybody in the corridors. It was unnerving. Corneo was doing well so far to confuse his enemy. Otherwise, it meant all of his men where in the same place, making his plan of attack so much simpler, like shooting fish in a barrel.

The corridors did not remain a ghost town for very long. Reno stopped at the sound of his name being called from behind. He followed the voice back around the corner and stopped by the mouth of a door, opened to a dark room bathed in the dull, electric hue of television monitors. He wandered in closer and dropped to his knees to help his men untie their commanding officer, Tseng. They found him on the floor, his arms bound behind his back in heavy duty rope, his mouth sealed with duck tape, his eyelids heavy and closed. He was unconscious, lying beside an unarmed guard with a broken neck.

"Still breathing," Reno remarked, holding his hand over Tseng's nose, feeling the warm moisture coat his fingertips. "Milner, Jenkins: You two take him back outside and take care of him. Jacobson, Roberts: You two cover them."

"Sir..."

He looked up and followed the soldiers' line of vision to a particular television screen, the largest of them nestled snugly in the centre of a block of twelve.

He heard the gunshot before the video delay let him see it with his very own eyes.

Perhaps retribution would be an unachievable goal after all.

**_Wednesday, October 27th, 10:04am – Midgar Memorial Gardens, Upper Plate_**

Given no time to prepare, she couldn't wear black, and somehow it made her feel insensitive, like she hadn't made the effort, like she didn't care. It had made this whole situation that much harder to deal with, after all, how was a mother supposed to react to the news of her son's death? Worse still, she had received the distressing news over the telephone by Tseng of all people. She hadn't gotten a call from Rude, nor had she received any messages from him. As far as she could tell at the time, he was probably dead, too.

She hoped he was.

But she was wrong. He attended the secret funeral, his back to the grave, trying to repress those emotions, trying to act as though this wouldn't affect him in the slightest, that he was still the tough old Turk he had always been. And it made her hate him all over again, as much as she hated herself for giving him another chance. This was his fault, and she knew he would never admit it, at least not to her face anyway. He would go on living his deluded life, pretending none of this mattered, pretending he'd never had a son in the first place.

Tseng stayed behind her, appointing himself as her official guardian. She had been delivered from her geological prison in the Mythril Mines to him at some ungodly hour this morning by Corneo's men. On the long drive back from the exchange point, somewhere in the grasslands between Kalm and Midgar where the air was filled with the sounds of chirping crickets and the smell of chocobo shit, they had said nothing to one another. In a hurry to get this burden out of his car, he had dropped her off in a rundown shack in the sector four slums, informing her that it was the best hiding place he knew of in Midgar on such short notice and that he promised to take her to Rocket Town tomorrow where she would start a new life. She had asked him about Jake: He had not responded. Only until he had left and returned to the Upper Plate did he find the courage to eventually call her and give her the bad news with a heartfelt apology and his condolences.

Monica didn't blame Tseng for his insensitivity; it wasn't his responsibility to inform her, and she knew that now. But, at the time, she had taken her rage out on him, swearing at him, cursing his family and his friends, and he had been forced to absorb it all in silence. For that she had to thank him: It had done her good to get the initial anger out of her system.

With a laboured sigh, she got down on her knees, slipping forward ever so slightly in the mud, and swept her fingers over the embossed letters over the marble tombstone. It was cold to the touch and wet from the intensifying rain. The heavens were weeping, mourning the loss of her beautiful boy, and she soon followed suit, sobbing uncontrollably, no longer caring if she was making a scene or if she was breaking her promise to remain nondescript and under the radar.

Tseng looked over to Rude. His back was still turned to the sepulture, to the mourners, to his responsibilities. And so, he took it upon himself to gently grasp Monica's shoulders and pull her away before she attracted any negative attention.

She grabbed a clump of his hair in a vain attempt to break free and began to screech at the top of her lungs. "This is your fault! This all your fucking fault, you rat bastard!" Rude still had not turned around, inciting more rage. "Are you even listening to me! Do you even care that your son is dead, you son of a bitch!"

"Come on, Monica," Tseng spoke, maintaining his composure. "You promised me you would only need ten minutes. You've said your goodbyes, now we have to leave. I'm sorry... I'm..."

She wriggled and writhed in his grip, soon spending all of her energy and submitting to him, breaking down into tears once more.

"It should have been you, Rude," she mumbled, her voice soft, trembling. "It should have been you..."

**_Tuesday, October 26th, 2:28pm – Room 101, Don Corneo's Mansion, Sector Six_**

"Just for the record, I would have killed your little runt regardless of whether you shot yourself or not."

The act was nearly over: Corneo had worn Rude down. His game was simple retribution, payback for all the times the Turks had walked all over him, bullied him for information, made him look like a fool in front of his men and his people. People revered Turks, _feared _them, yet saw the Don as a perverted peddler of flesh. Well, the times were about to change. With one bullet, his family name would surpass that of any Turk and, hopefully, Shinra himself.

There was just one more part of this game to end this psychological torment. He needed a maniacal laugh. He needed to become the sadistic killer. He needed to become the predator, finishing off his prey. But, the thrill of becoming top dog had consumed his every desire, suppressing even his raging libido, and there was one force he had forgotten to account for, one competing predator that had slipped the net, away from the prospect of responsibility.

He had forgotten to account for Reno.

Falling back in shock, Corneo crawled to safety behind Rude as thunderous pops of gunfire filled the room. He peeked over his human shield long enough to see twenty or more military uniforms shooting everything and everyone in sight without mercy, led by a familiar blue suit.

"You sons of bitches, I'll kill you all!" Reno hollered, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own gun, let alone that of forty others.

The surprise charge in this miniature war gave the Turk a great advantage, though there were still a few fatalities instigated by the retaliatory fire of Corneo's guards. The shooting grew louder and louder until it became a contiguous ringing, tantamount to what Corneo could only estimate to be the sound of God's voice, able to shatter skulls and shake mountains. He closed his eyes, still able to perceive the flashes of gunfire, and sealed his ears with his palms, hiding behind Rude who had yet to move a single muscle, almost as though there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Then, all of a sudden, the gunfire stopped. The thunder had gone, leaving the ringing to pound his ears in solitude, soon accompanied by the slow clicking of shoes. The sound grew louder, as did his heartbeat.

Reno squatted down besides Jake, brushing his hair aside as it clumped in congealed blood. He wiped his palm over Jake's eyelids, closing them for his own sake, saving himself from that cold, dead stare.

"I... I can't reach him..." Rude whimpered, still trapped in his own world, clawing at the ground. His index finger was a mere inch from Jake's hand. It felt like a million miles away.

Reno gently pulled Jake's body closer to his father, allowing him to feel the warmth in his cheeks one last time. Rude found the energy to sit up and cradled Jake in his arms, burying his son's head in his neck, exposing Corneo cowering in the corner, rocking back and forth as he silently prayed for forgiveness.

How the tables had turned indeed.

"There you are," Reno uttered, almost under his breath, as a wicked grin spread across his lips. "I've been looking for you."

"No... p-please, I-I... I'm sorry..."

"Sorry is not good enough, Corneo," he replied, taking his time to stand up. His fingers drummed the hilt of his gun, slowly from minimus to index in order, characteristic of a hunter taking pleasure in his kill.

"I... I'll give you anything you want. J-just name it... I can get it for you... I can..."

"The only thing I want," Reno spoke with growing aggression, "is your head on a fucking platter."

The colour drained from Corneo's cheeks as the Turk loomed over him, pressing the barrel of his gun with quite some force against his forehead.

"I could make this last for hours – _days_. I could make it as painful as I possibly could," he said, watching as beads of sweat trickled from blond roots and dribbled around the mouth of the gun's barrel. "Nothing would make me happier, believe me. But, quite frankly, I don't want to waste any more of my precious time on the likes of a twisted freak like you. So, I'll make it nice and simple. One bullet to the head. Perfect karmic retribution."

"Are you telling me you haven't killed any kids either?" Corneo growled, the pulsing adrenaline generating a phantom sense of courage. He could see no other way out of this. Turks did not respond to bargaining. They only responded to blackmail: It was their kryptonite. "Where's all the karmic retribution for them?"

Reno pressed the gun against the Don's head even harder, his muscles almost shaking with all the effort. "You're not talking your way out of this one, alright?"

"You sure about that?"

Corneo bore through the worst of the pain until the overstimulation numbed him to a certain degree. Following that, he could afford to let a vile chuckle escape his lips.

It was enough to pique Reno's curiosity. After all, this was not normal behaviour for Don Corneo.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I'm not–" He paused to laugh once more. "I'm not the only one who knows your _secret_."

Reno's eyes betrayed him. They flickered to the right, trying to find Rude within his peripheral vision, looking for that hint of curiosity. In the heat of the moment, he had assumed his secret would die with Corneo, but the fat bastard had insured himself for a situation like this, proving he wasn't as stupid as he let on. Of course, the Don may have simply been lying to improve his odds of survival, but Reno could not afford to test this pervert's honesty.

He removed his gun from the Don's forehead, leaving a red, circular imprint, and lost himself in thought. No matter how he saw this, Jake's blood would always be on his hands. _He _had brought Jake to these people, _he_ had thrown him into this piranha pool, _he_ had indirectly murdered Rude's son. His hope of killing Corneo, and thus killing the secret, was simply a vain attempt at turning this infallible truth into falsity. He'd hoped that as soon as the fat mafia lord was dead, he alone would be the last person alive with the knowledge of the truth, and that if his mind would allow him to _believe_ it to be false, then it would be so.

But Corneo had thrown a spanner in the works. As much as Reno hated it, his cowardice and fear of justice may have extended this perverted psychopath's life.

Corneo's smile widened and transformed into a dirty grin. It was enough to squeeze at Reno's heart, to force him to do the right thing, to live with the consequences of his actions, to live his life or die with dignity. Either way, it had to be done.

Reno aimed his gun at Corneo's forehead once more with a trembling hand. The smell of Jake's blood invaded his senses. It gave him purpose. It gave him the courage to seek vengeance.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled back the hammer and stared down the barrel at Corneo's unchanging expression. His trigger finger began to shudder. His future rested on the twitch of a single digit. It was a terrifying thought.

He took in a deep gulp of air and shook his head.

"I'll see you in hell–"

"Reno."

He froze at the mention of his name and the familiar scent of cigar smoke, overpowering the stench of blood, returning him to reality, back to the world of cowardice and fear.

Heidegger flicked at the end of his cigar, dropping clumps of ash in a pile of fresh blood. "Quite a place you've got here, Corneo," he jeered, gesturing at the masses of dead bodies decomposing around him.

"Heidegger, you mind putting your dog on a leash?" he asked, nodding at the Turk still training a gun at his head.

"Not yet. Before I do that, why don't you start by telling me why the hell you were trying to fuck with my team?"

"W-well... I was... I was just sticking up for myself. Defending my honour, just as you would do if some punks thought they could walk all over you and your people." Corneo could gauge from Heidegger's expression that his response was inadequate, and so he tried to approach it from a different angle. "I was just having a little fun, man. These Turks of yours are dispensable; you can replace 'em any time you want in a heartbeat."

Heidegger pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn't heard something as stupid as this in a long time. "Just because I can, it doesn't mean I want to," he sighed. "You know how long it takes to train a Turk? How fucking expensive it is? You think I have the patience for that kind of shit!"

Corneo began to lose the confidence that had saved his life. Especially now that he had learned that he was equally as dispensable as the Turks, but less of a burden to replace. In other words, he was lower in the food chain than he had once expected.

"Well... well, what do you want from me?"

"What do I want from you?" Heidegger asked, clawing through his thick beard as he pretended to ponder the question. He brushed past Reno, still in a state of uncertainty and growing regret. "I want you to let me know why I should let you live. I mean, a stunt like this hardly makes me think you're worth the effort anymore."

"Look, the whole deal we had goin' was to keep an eye on the politics down here. I can still be your informant; I can be your eyes and your ears down here."

Heidegger sucked the air through his teeth. "Nah. I don't think that's a good enough reason," he uttered, pulling a gun halfway out of a jacket holster.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Corneo racked his brain, remembering another useful piece of information that would save his life for the second time, marking this day as a historic landmark. After all, in the future, his words in perilous situations like this would only bring him closer to death. Deep down in his heart of hearts, he probably knew his survival today was nothing short of a miracle, or two.

"AVALANCHE!" he exclaimed with great gusto. "I can help you keep tabs on AVALANCHE. They're becoming a threat to national security, right?"

"Go on," Heidegger said, letting his gun fall back in its holster.

"Your government has lost interest in the slums and is focusing all its energy on global sales of materia, on the military, on plans to develop cities in mako-rich fantasy lands. The only authority surveying the slums nowadays is me. I can see into every dark corner of this city. I can hear every last conversation. I _am _the slums, and I am the only reliable informant you have left. You want dirt on AVALANCHE? You want to please Rufus? You gotta let me live."

Heidegger nodded. That was the answer he wanted.

"We have a deal?" Corneo asked. The notion of living was tantalising, lowering his blood pressure back to a normal level for a man of his stature.

"Fine. But you ever pull something like this again, and I'll rip your balls off and feed them to you, you got that?"

"Y-yeah, sure, whatever," he responded, his smile growing by the mile. He could put his ego aside for another day or two for the simple fact that he had survived for another day or two. "But, are you gonna guarantee my safety from those two?" he asked, nodding at the Turks both lost in their own private hells.

Heidegger slowly pulled the gun from Reno's loose fingers and winked at Corneo. "Don't worry about them. They'll forget _all _about this." His smirk came straight from a Corneo factory. "Oh, speaking of you being my eyes and my ears, have you found Monica Gauthier yet? One minute you tell me you have her, the next minute you tell me she escaped. How the hell did that happen?"

Corneo tried not to look at Rude. He didn't want to pause for too long; his answer had to appear convincing.

Rude lifted his head up. The sound of her name was enough to steal him from his near vegetative state. He remained aloof, keeping his chin close to his son's cheek.

"I don't know how she escaped, but she did."

"Well, where is she?"

"I honestly don't know," Corneo replied, offering this gesture of goodwill, ensuring he remained safe from vengeance. He couldn't trust Heidegger to look after him anymore. "But I'll let you know as soon as I find her."

"Make sure that you do," he growled. He turned to walk away, noticing Rude cradling a blood soaked child. "Who's the kid?"

"My son," Rude responded. His voice was hoarse.

"I didn't know you had a son." Heidegger's indifference transcended every possible definition of insensitivity.

Rude took off his shades to rub his moist eyes. He craned his neck upwards, the fire in his eyes burning brighter than the sun. "Well, as you can see, I don't have one anymore – _sir_."

Even Heidegger felt that sting. He simply nodded, placed his cigar back between his lips, and marched on.

Little did anyone know, that would be the last thing Rude Carter would ever say for a _very_ long time.

**_Wednesday, October 27th, 10:06am – Midgar Memorial Gardens, Upper Plate_**

The rain began to fall sideways, carried by gusts of heavy winds. It didn't bother him in the slightest, he could deflect it, just as he could deflect the pain festering with his heart, and the vitriol hurled at him from his ex-wife. As long as he could not see it, he could not fear it. It was like he always said, _ignorance is bliss_.

He could feel a hand touching his shoulder, the warmth radiating from their fingers through his wet shirt. He recognised those fingers, slim, calloused, knobbly.

"How you holding up, man?" Reno asked him, hoping to break this icy silent treatment. He couldn't take it personally. Rude had gone through a lot of mental trauma, and had been brushing off everybody, as he had just witnessed with Monica who could still be heard screaming from two blocks away. Still, he was Rude's partner. They would be back on the job within a matter of days, playing cat and mouse for the umpteenth time with Tseng's favourite flower girl. Their very success relied upon excellent communication. Their very friendship relied on it.

"You're gonna get through this, y'hear me? Believe me, I've lost family before. It hurts for a long time, but time heals all wounds."

Rude didn't want to hear this. He wanted to be left alone with the calming sound of waves lapping on a beach in his head. He didn't want to think, for thinking would only lead him further down the spiralling slope of depression. If he did so, he would probably think about the time he had wasted kissing ass at work when he could have been at home with his son. He would probably think about how futile and fragile life really was, how it seemed pointless to do anything when we were all inevitably going to die anyway. He would probably think about the cruelty of his creator, of the authenticity of his creator, of whether he was as deluded as Reno always claimed, praising a figment of his imagination. He would probably think about murdering Corneo and killing himself afterwards, realising there was nothing left to live for.

He would probably think about Reno's secret, about Corneo's snarky remark regarding Reno's conscience after this incident. And it would eat him up inside, destroy him, weaken him, turn him into something he promised he never would be.

He didn't want to think, because he didn't want to realise that he had indeed become a coward. And so, he remained in this blissful state of ignorance for as long as the pain would persist.

"You OK, buddy? You can talk to me if you want to." Well, he could talk to him about anything but the truth.

Rude remained silent, his back still turned to the ceremony.

Reno wanted to talk to him, to comfort him, if only to assuage his own guilt, but he knew his attempts would be futile. He wanted to tell him that he should not focus on this for the rest of his life, and that he should take action and seek professional help. Go to group therapy, visit Dr. Kauffman, take a damn cookery class. Anything but bottle up his emotions and become a silent shell of a man.

It only took a flick of the eye, but Reno saw _her_ standing by the cemetary gate and was instantly reminded of her idiom about vultures and the like. He couldn't believe how appropriate it was right now: The irony cloyed at his throat. And he wanted to tell Rude, to remind him of her, if only to give him something to think about, something happy in all this darkness.

Instead, he simply squeezed his shoulder, took one final look at Jake's quickly filling grave, and began the long walk home in the rain, passing her by the gate without saying a word.

* * *

**A/N**

Well, that's it. I hope you've enjoyed reading this story as much as I have had writing it. It's been a long three years, but I'm really glad I stuck with this and saw it through to the end. There's nothing more satisfying than finishing a piece of work that you've dedicated such a large portion of your life to.

OK, so first of all, acknowledgements. I want to thank the following people:

The Sacred and Profane  
Woodster  
Rena  
Nearu - Cat In My Fridge  
x Sarizar  
BabyKay47  
NRGburst  
GreenOnBlack  
Ah-choo  
I-En-Tee-Jay  
Pharaoh-chan  
The Genesis Awards  
tash  
laim  
mom calling  
Mehgo  
brokenmaelstrom  
SKY-PIRATE THEIVE  
BurningStarIV  
Mako Headrush

And a MASSIVE thank you to Amanda aka 'fickle pink'. Without your amazingly detailed and heartfelt reviews, I would have stopped writing this thing at around chapter ten. For a while I was writing this thing for you more than myself, and I'm so glad I could share this story with you. I can only assume you grew tired of waiting for updates, as I would be. I went months - and I mean _many _months – without updating, partially due to my hectic timetable, but mostly due to my laziness. If you are still out there somewhere, I hope you are still reading and have made it to the end. Love ya lots!

Again, big thanks to anyone that has/will review: Means a lot to get some feedback, especially if it's glowing with praise. It never hurts to get a confidence boost I guess. Love you all.

OK, regarding this chapter, I haven't beta read this either. I've just finished it up and it's pretty late. I don't want to delay an update for any longer than I have to, so it's going up now. I'll fix any bugs later on. Now that I have this story out of the way I can focus on a new multi-chapter work involving Vincent and Tifa. I hate Yuffie/Elena/Aerith... pretty much all FF7 chicks besides Tifa, so most, if not all, my future fics will involve her.

Back to this story, I am sorry if the ending was bitter, but not every story has a happy ending. The main theme of this story is the blurring of definitions of good and bad, after all, the main protagonist in this story, Reno, is also the main antagonist! But nobody is inherently good or inherently bad. All of the characters do good, all of them do bad. It's their attitude towards their actions that defines their character. There is a lot of mirroring that occurs in here for a reason. Reno and Rude are very similar in some respects but are polar opposites in many others, just like everyone else on the planet. Their partnership is not as special as they think, but it's their perceptions that count.

There are a few things I won't explain, i.e. why Marlene read Tifa's fortune on Reno's palm and vice versa, the brass scales in the bar etc. I'll let you think about those.

Anyway, I think I've said everything I wanted to say. I hope you've enjoyed this and I hope you stick around for my next fanfics.

Until then.

Aardy!


End file.
